At a baseball game in Santa Fe, the prairie told me a secret.  It was full, like lungs swelling with dirt, roots. I grabbed at it and ran into a vision of my father, the moon, uncurling a rope for me; I run up into his light, and he's telling me All girls grow, all girls grow, and the air is soft—like Prairie’s hands, like my breathing—and it is then I understand why dogs walk on all fours, why our legs are important, why I said yes when she crawled inside of my mouth, scared and hiding like a sheep, wanting me to rescue her, lovingly, like Mary did; but I am not Mary I say, and my father, he is still there, large and glowing moon, and my body—my body is heavy stone sinking water, food for sheep, clay apple, and I believe Prairie when she touches me, her fingers sliding deep into my body, a wish for me to become, become. I believe Prairie when she says, Shhh, girl, and when she says, No one knows how beautiful the sky is here. No one. But we know. I touch Prairie’s cheek, she hums, her throat as worn as a dog’s. My legs are sore. I look up and see purple, red—falling onto the moon, falling onto her hands—and the rope my father uncurled, it’s loose now, swinging; and my body, it’s growing, and I don’t stop it. I run far, far away from this sky no one but we three have seen. I am heavy with water, with roots. My feet are big as satellites. I will not tell a thing. Not a thing.