There's the Man in the Moon and There's the Rabbit in the Full Moon . . . Which do you see?

The geometry of your face


reveals a contradiction of lines and angles where
formulaic proofs collapse under the weight of your cheekbones so sharp
they betray pueblo blood old as the deserts of Chihuahua,
hard as mesquite,
beautiful as the waxy, yellow flowers
of a million nopales opening to a warm spring sunlight,
closing to a full rabbit moon. Your lines
me embrujan with words like knots too old to untie,
too brilliant to ignore.
Your raw corn stories haunt me, and I want to bring you into the rain
where your thirst will be quenched, your hunger
finally sated