By Jacob Shores-Arguello
(Narrated by John Poch)
When we were children, we dug into the side of our moutain
It was terrible brown work.
That morning we’d made the cold walk to the hospital
And watched my cousin’s mother for a long time.
She was unchained from her machines
Shrinking into ordinary.
It was our first death
And we looked at our small hands.
But no, my cousin insisted,
These are not our hands.
These are bare hands
And we walked to our mountain
Shaped our cave
We bears were making a home.
Shook off our human bones until angels howled like dogs
In the valley below.