I was five that summer, in our new house, with the light
aproning over the desert just before dark. That year I touched the blue
pink skin of my cousin’s baby rabbits in the smoky evening smell
of El Paso lawns. And there’s Hulia watching me, her head positioned,
great and toothless, through the broken window; the first big boney fish
star of the wrinkled sky. And there’s my mother and father’s bed.