The body and the boundaries are not so static 
They shimmer and move, chatter with rusted steel touch
Sticking their heads out from beneath the dirt and dust you’ve been kicking over them
Someone is looking out for you out there 
Another body
Always was another body before yours
That touched these bleached bounds
The same as your white bones 
Of air encased in numerous unknown formations awaiting repair
Can you stitch a breath of forgetfulness together?
The same as you and your body, bounded by your own memory 
Limited, has corners, you turn and re-orient, get frustrated
Possessing your space 
Positioned in the presence of permeating persistent memory

Can you own the stone below that which bounds it?
If they were to teach one another to talk to each other 
Would you listen then? 

Thank you stranger for orienting me in this space
Although I may still feel lost, at least I know where I am now 

It was ambiguous they said when defining the Elena Gallegos grant for they didn’t know what “sierra” meant. It wasnt until many years later when re measuring the bounds of the tract of land did they find out it actually meant the crest of the Sandias. And that was a long way from where the fence line landed that day. Or the days before and the ones before that. It’s said it still looks much the way it did in 1679, but does it feel the same? Does it speak the same dialect or language it once did? There are claims that hidden off a trail in the Sandia Mountain lies buried a stone with a deep cross etched within it representing the boundary marker left by a Spanish lieutenant marking the boundary of the Sandia Pueblo from the late 1700’s. Buried. That would have meant somewhere up to almost 10,000 acres, an area of about 15 square miles well into the mountains of the Sandias. When you look out from the sierra today, you can see the defined line of the Pueblo butting no further up to the foothills across the arid dry valley. A headstone of the past dictating what was once and is no longer, an epitaph more than a boundary. Laid to rest. If we taught this stone to talk, if only we taught them words, what could we learn from them today? Vaguely, always vaguely remembered, it’s amazing how memory can play that cruel trick on the mind of forgetfulness at the most timely of times. Or maybe we choose to forget and let interpretation take place for history. Who atones for their sins? Is it the hang gliders, the icarus climbing toward the sun, maybe to take that too with them on their way down? Is there a boundary etched in the stars? Is it truly too late to redraw the bounds that bind us, too late to atone for those sins? 

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