Splitting Red
We look past the terracotta houses,
through the Mexican stretch
of red and orange splicing the sky.
She's envious, watching the children
run around the rubble of mountains,
their hands glazed with dust.
She wants to be them,
to know their ignorance,
to not fear the age
that wrinkles her wrists.
I wait as she watches the children
line fairy tales on the ground
and spin.
I cannot empathize.
I want to grow,
to break through the crack of dust
on my hand and show,
as the cactus does with water,
that I am useful.
I want to see the sun
as old men do, to watch and smile
as the yellow fades into the background.
We sit down together,
each wanting something different,
but cannot argue.
As the terracotta cracks silent
to shades of purple and brown,
I spin the dust from her brow
and break.
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Shaun McCormick
September 3rd, 2001
