In the Apache language only specific things can be possessed or owned.
Falling from my womb is utter responsibility.
And stutter life in the realm of cannons.
The one who owns
delineates the boundaries without knowing.
Convince me now,
to move my hand.
Shake me now,
to stop scratching the borders.
I will hear her.
My friend who speaks in the Apache voice.
“I can love when I remember that nothing belongs to me.”
Not the sky covering my faults.
Nor the ground eating my tears.
Nor the caresses feeding my desire.
Not the waves who speak each time to the sand.
“Look at where my happiness lies.
I know the salt does not belong to me.”