I shed my sunburnt skin;

make plans to take up residency,

learn how to talk back with a mouthful of seafoam.

 

There is history buried under this land

in bones and teeth and seeds.

 

Here you can walk

—not on water—

but on the ground where rivers used to run.

 

Nothing prepared us for the sky-bruising;

not all those years in the lungs of it.

 

When the clouds turn red it means

wrap a damp cloth over your mouth and nose.

You’ll know by the texture of the air.