The Desert as My Cradle

Into your scorched apron of tumbleweeds,      and I'm home: Mojave, Arid Mother, stop rocking me;      I'm a man now. Don't hum your berceuse of scorpions;      I'm a man. Can't you see?— Yes, I've noticed the cactus,      with its bristly halo,...

Purchase an archive subscription to see the rest of this article.