HOMELESS WOMAN UNDER LAS ANIMAS STREET BRIDGE

by Katie Kingston
2004 National Poetry Contest - Third Place

I shake black sparrows from my hair, shake burrs
and fire ants from my hem. Sorceress of bad language,
fragrance of vodka in a clear bottle, I chew the black juice
from nicotine, release my arrow of spittle. I reminisce
with Bonilla, his Spanish lilt, his Portuguese roots.
Nobody sees him but me. I notch his rifle
with the number of dead, shave the fine hair of his skull,
watch sparrows grapple for the toughest strands.

I surround myself with river stones, keep other homeless
from growing too close. I hang mutton and a carving knife
in the cottonwood, deal fifty-one playing cards, a torn joker.
I scatter birdseed just to hear wings, gather chokecherries,
cattails, yucca root. I pull wool over my ankles, inhale
the scent of dumpsters, river mulch, greasy burgers. I stir broth
with a broken twig, sip the frightened leaves of afterlife.

I call to crows in their language, roll out my blue tarp
under concrete sky, under the hiss of tires, night cruisers
with bass tuned full, drumbeats like heartthrobs distilling night.
I build fire. I stain my teeth with chamomile, with river silt.
I crawl into sleep, curl into fetal, wise at protecting myself.
I dream piñon nuts, juniper wine, a forest of pewter light in rain.