O Land of Spells! O Land of the Over and Undone, Of Bodies turned to Dust one- thousand time s! O Land of Mirrors! O Land of Rolling Sand Unending! O Land of the Stubborn Cactus, arms raised, praise in spite of heat, O Land of Sun Unforgiving! You curl and unravel in a belonging repentant at the feet of Pancho Villa: Eagle with two beginnings and no space for an end. a snake owned to His chest, with venom that pacifies Dehydration’s rude mouth He expanses the horizon and decides alone the shape of salvation and to whom it belongs. Coiled in the bones of the dead, the bones stubborn enough to outlive the dust. The Desert stirs with the memory of those it has swallowed into forget. The Sky makes no room for the spilling of words into Her Baseless Womb, only remembers the times she swelled The Ocean in Her Mouth before solemnly returning The Wet to The Waves. The Snake owned to Pancho Villa’s chest recalls the coil of an octopus tentacle, a Body He once belonged to before Sovereignty forged New Shape. The Venom thick in his Throat, he imagines the light wandering limbs symphonying a suction into the dry air, every appendage taunting Thirst with an inky black promise. Pancho Villa lets a prayer for Rain slip from His unperishable chest into the open Mouth of The Sky. She tastes the prayer. Lets it flood over and pool into its own Answer. A Man With No Face opens His Mouth to Curse The Rain and Usurp Pancho Villa. The Sky now scorned swallows up Pancho’s Prayer and exhales Sweet Forget over The Desert. The Land shudders the unrememberance, The Sky does not Flinch, The Sky reasons that to return The Rain Means She must first take The Rain. She has lost all her lust for ownership. Promise of Wet now empty, The Desert unhinges its mouth, hungry for a Plump Truth. This means there is no way to touch The Sand without being Swallowed whole by it. Pancho Villa sees the Desert slipping from Him, all riddled with Rabbit Holes to fall the weary. There is No Mouth that leaves this place with Memory of Feast plaguing its Tongue. Resigned, a Land with a Horizon unwilling to be traced, Pancho Villa, unGod, cries: I have dripped from these bones the last of the blood of their belongers and yet they refuse to forget, refuse to form to My Chest so I can fall into the earth Whole and be Seen without consumption. The Sky is deaf to need, and Faceless Men speak without consequence of their sound. To Whom Do I Belong Now? What Magic regifts Salvation? What Spell to hum The Hunger out of This Belly?