right hand pointing

was palpable,

thick as pigment

from the palette

of an artist,

suffusing the dusk

of the day

she was born

like the dust

of a storm.

It came into the house

through the open

door and windows,

coloring the skin

of the midwife

and the curandera.

It even robed

the distant mountains,

the sky, the desert,

the very air,

caking everything

it touched, fracturing

into the letters

of her name.