On The Eve of Turning Thirty-Three

Thighs churning, pistons pushing torso
across hillsides bruised brown and it's only
by looking left,
looking right that you finally see
the wheat of your childhood has been threshed,
that your soles slap
against soft earth,
the echo rippling across the plains.
an invocation against the creator yet
these rolling mounds
hold only you
and to point an accusatory finger
at them is flat useless,
for these waves of ground yawn to the horizon
and now, on the eve of turning
thirty-three, it is clear:
this land, this nothingless
betrays its own solitude
by birthing up force so salient
that your vision buckles, you blink your eyes,
and you swear each step carries you
to an oasis. Then gravity pulls,
yanks knees downward, buries
them in earth, your hands cup,
pooling water, you throw back your hands,
oasis water made real,
the liquid washing your skin like baptism,
one you only know enough about to cry for, the salt
tears rivering down
your face and mingling with the earth
which was, once, outside of you.