Boy of Lightning, Girl of Fire
We kiss and there’s a shock
like rain on a supermarket cart.
The mountain cries light
when he plays his guitar thunderstorms.
He was born where the tornadoes
were so bad that Bill Clinton
had to come to the rez
to apologize. His daddy remembers it
on the radio when he’s born,
in the IHS delivery room.
When I’m brought into the world,
there is a flood. Red
Running into Water. Outside,
in the sun, the mines still cough
uranium into the slickrock and silt.
My mother’s lips widen for breath
when I slide out in the delivery room,
nameless but full of flame.
Surviving a Breakup, Old Indian Style
My best friend’s crystals collect light by her windowsill.
My stone of choice is turquoise. A teardrop, a shield,
small god. It sits on my wrist
at approximately the same temperature
as my mama’s hands,
when I’m sick. I write, They were always
so cool, like water. I write, because
I hurt. I hurt, so I am sick. Answer strewn
in pebbles cuz I’m too old for crying
at the table and I’ve asked Creator
one too many times
to smite me where I stand. My bad.
I get up and out of bed.
I leave my face bare.
I don’t wear jewelry,
except when my mother asks
where my turquoise is/ if I wear it,
and I remember the cuff
on my wrist.
It never feels like a chore,
but feeding myself does.
I am drawn to water, nowadays.
It is so much a part of me,
the stone must have found its way
to my most secret of hearts.
I drink, slowly.
I dream of rain.
My eyes collect light that gathers
and falls. It becomes me.
The showers of tumbling stars.
An Altar for Lost Girls
This young, you don’t think of your mother.
You slam doors on their hearts.
They leave dinner cold but the lights still on.
Every pair of shoe you wear is suicide. A monument
to the end of the world. Not much to it
when it’s everywhere, the last time
your mother cried. You dream high,
and an auntie’s hair grows back.
The cowboy responsible gets his ass
clipped in Santa Fe. And every father
comes home, though the bad ones
get their shit rocked. In this language,
lost girls are messengers from God.
We went to church, and it’s the parking lot
they found last summer’s body. Where we smoked
weed and boys watched from their cars. Our pleas
were answered, but it was just a line
of women coming home. An ocean
of arms waiting there to catch them.
