Grit
/Rosa Canales
I lie on my back, wriggle inside
This sleeping bag, lick lips
And nibble the grit under tongue,
The milky drops of the night sky
That pucker this dark down red,
That have fallen into my mouth, open
While I sleep. Dreams fled, only
My snarled hair and body scaled,
On this bank, I cannot tell
If I am young or old, lucky, or just alive,
But I can taste, in pinpricks, the sweat
Of a million stars folding back into one.
Sunrise pries open the river with a knife,
Carves lips into the current to press
Against dawn, its shadows,
The color of the heron at water’s edge,
Her beak that plucks and buries
Memory like fish from a current,
Wings that slice each day anew,
Her feathers beaded with fallen stars,
She flies with the friction of each moment
Against the next, she is this dawn, and she is
The grit of the land between my lips,
My teeth, my hardened shoulder blades.
Author’s Note: As with most of my work, "Grit" considers our position within the natural world, drawing on nature and place to inspire and reflect. This piece speaks to the precision of time—to slowing down and to feeling, rather than understanding, the good, the bad, and the "grit" that fills each moment with life.
Rosa Canales lives in Denver, Colorado where she spends her free time hiking, running, and exploring the Rocky Mountains. Her work has previously appeared in Rust and Moth, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Lammergeier, The Sigma Tau Delta Review and others.
