A humble tongue nevergot our people anywherebut the back and get back. Whenthe moon walks, I see limbs: darker andbedazzled. In the burnt test of heat before hello, I cometo know that there must be something holyin the shade, especiallywhen the Earth just can’t stopmaking it. Now, I'm not sureof much when my people still see sexyas a barefoot frolicking with the unmute of brown. Blura signature into sand after we call Godwith our knees. Here, we tire from the heatand where the desert takes us, and get, and get backand dance, too. We dance so much that we did notneed the slacks, and so I stopped wearing themaround the women I didn't want to thinkI was just some captured gaggle of limbs. So they let me dancewith them. And they sang, andI only ever really remembered scripturelike a tear, a thing that leaves you afteryou've already belted hurt, and finishedthe bleed of the night. But whether she knows or not, the suntakes me often, calmly pries the half-woken glimmer outof the sand and the sandy-skinned— those with kneespressed into the dimpled spine of the desert until the world knowswe are here. Always been. And we know it, so why hidein a mouth the sun doesn’t love—everybody else does. And me and my brothers staywondering if God really needs a humblesacrifice: this blood still tastes the same to me.Always did.