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Kinsale Drake
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.