Alfredo Aguilar

I WOKE UP IN THE DESERT

& could not tell what time it was. i walked
beside you in the dark & you became

a white owl. you flew onto a mesquite branch, turned
your head, opened your small noble beak,

looked into me, & flew away. i picked up
a fallen feather & let it dangle from my ear. i ate

a cactus fruit, spat out a thimble of silver. the saguaro
told me you can learn to live on the smallest giving—

to hold a palm full of water & make it last a season.
i looked up & the clouds on the moon shivered.

i spoke with a coyote. he told me how the world
was born. in the beginning, he said an ocean.

he licked my palms clean. told me i only howl
to try & call back everything that has left me.

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Alfredo Aguilar is the son of Mexican immigrants. His work has appeared or is currently forthcoming in Winter Tangerine, The Adroit Journal, Drunken Boat, & elsewhere. He lives in North County San Diego.