In June’s arms, I could have lived.
She cured those parched thoughts
of boys who held yellow-rumped
warblers stunned against windshields until
hearts slowed in their rough palms:
boys who’d trade a kiss for a life.
She knew those high, flat rocks
where women ground seed from chaff,
varnished small desert bowls cupping
rain and the resuscitated moon –
where she taught me to drink
slowly, deeply and often.