thoughts about homelands and burials

thỉnh thoảng,
i think my bones are made of dirt.
my fingers bend wildly and crumble
until they feel the resistance of flesh
cold to the touch
piercing 
they lie in wait until they get to dig in
to the flesh that has been 
slaughtered and butchered
maimed by both hands that are made of the same land
and by dust that rains from the sky.

every now and then,
i look down at my skin and am reminded
of muddied water.
when i lay in the land and
my bones disintegrate
perhaps my body will still stand out amongst this earth
somehow the sinew never sticks,
it remains unpolished and warmed by the fire
that hardened my mother’s lungs into metaL

when my parents’ voices crack the sky open,
when the window of my car shatters
under the weight of a man’s fist
and i am three thousand miles away
from where the crack of the thunder can
hit me
i think i know where i belong.
why must we commit violence against the earth for
our bodies
to belong to it?