FISSURE Drenched Renée Gregorio O'Keeffe's cross fills the canvas, makes thin the pink horizon. Because it's well-built and knows its own structure, it bursts with moonlight. My body has its own joy— dark, rolling hills meeting night sky. March winds have lasted through June— they've shred prayer flags, dried wood, scattered seed where it was not planted, replaced adhesion with fissure. The world spins on within and without you and me when we leave each other's body. The air's filled with the pressure of the sky's wanting to empty itself, the earth's thirst. I will never know the psychology of cows or a way to summon the dead. But I will practice knowing my body on this earth. I will let the rain, when it comes, shape me fiercely. ©2010 Renée Gregorio