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I am the definition of a thousand hungry days
a thousand soot-tasting nights,
the child who runs through red dirt fields
dancing the blessing of sun-washed stories.
La Loba watches hidden in Grandmother's gaze.

When I was a child I dreamed
of fireplaces with fire,
thin china plates with warm food,
shoes that fit,
brothers that did not die -
and the bones, always the bones,
rattling in my spirit
across the sands of the stars
across the deserts of the sea.

I sing the bones of those
closed-bud days
drum the heartbeat of their faces
rain them with tears, with laughter.
I wear these bones in the sunlight of me
pinch the dead leaves clean
feed them with the skin of my years.
These bones bloom in the desert
of my nights, breathing and waiting,
guarding the gates with blood and flesh.

I am the bones, singing, La Loba, singing!
Made strong by your song of mending,
by the small breaks, by the large ones.
Molded from the blooded ground
of the child I was
of the woman I am -
singing the songs for the bones
dancing the bones
praying the bones
I dance, La Loba,
I dance.