Audio: https://soundcloud.com/forestfairybev/todays-truths

We are all composed of stardust
and so is dirt.

You will inherit your father’s sins;
shortcomings; and nebulous gazes.
You will inherit your mother's deluge of 
quilts unfinished and songs unsung. 

Your writing will seem mechanical and fixated
on days of joy, and dexterous on hollow nights
spent circling parking lots.
The grief will paint your tongue black 
and coat your eyes with milky film grain.  

You must forge an alliance with the desert.
Its howling, chilling winds will embrace you
like lost lovers in your nightly dreams of longing.
The dances of blue agave and tumbleweed thorns
on your ankles will be a tactile treat
for your closet masochist.  

You will feel a flickering nausea that is jaundice-yellow 
when you peer into your own canyons
and realize their daunting depth.

The hunter often becomes the hunted.
Humble yourself before
your imminent death.