by Debra Kang DeanOn a two-lane, near the shoulder, bracing itself against speed, a turtle's green face that is my face. At the heart of the desert, an oasis amid fasting and prayer. Lean face that is my face, though I hunger, I am singing these praises that rise like incense. A serene face, that is my face. Not to the swift goes the race; time flies—and erases, says the moon, sweet face that is my face. I am walking into the dark woods' embrace by a reflected light. Unseen face, that is my fate.
