Four Corners
by Matt Pasca

My boys are stretched
in various states:

One’s fingertip pressed white
into Utah, licking New
Mexico with Velcro
strap—the other, pocket crumbling
clay over Colorado, cheeks
sprinkling Arizona with winter
tears. Here, brass lines cut

the land in fours
like holiday pie, lines through
what some call the Southwest,
the reservation of the Navajo,
who call themselves the Dine, whose
desert is crisscrossed under
their sons and my sons whose
tongues fill this random
crux of dust
with laughter.

The lines dissipate
as they extend
from this box
where my thoughts meet:

a quarter loss, a quarter
gratitude, a quarter awe,
a quarter shame. Above the copper
ring, our hands connect, our life—
primal boys who grew
uncharted, this ground
made sacred when lines
rise to meet
us from the sand.

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