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Sometimes, I throw a light on my bloody history and see myself running through the street of my childhood. Sweat and water dripping from head to toe while my body cruises through space and time with great speed, and passion tingling down my hollowed soul. I ran toward the cathedral. I wanted to make it in life. I wanted to be successful. It seemed too hard for my young self. I
Google tells me they are hyper-seasonal, highly coveted. my yard tells me they are hyper-attainable, highly abundant. on awinding drive up a rocky road to the mountains, my lover tells me ramps are ramps. got it. i grew upjust four hours north of here, so why do ramps feel so foreign? i rip them from my driveway, root and stem, and tossthem aside. a proper burial is
I hear chains as they approach. There are other rez boys around, so I know I will pay for staring, but I stare. Boys like us are bloodied here. Boys like Micah and me.
I want to make the body into sky. – Anish Kapoor, on his sculpture Marsyas (2002), Turbine Hall, Tate Modern No, I can’t imagine it–– I, the taut tongue in an unsheltered mouth dizzy with the earth as it turnsand turns. At least let me be skin. Something beneath skin.
Outdoors in my sun-blasted xeriscape, a saplingshivers with memories of green rain, greenery of jade dishes, of scallion chins afloat in a bowl of seaweed miso-broth, of uranium milk glass flashing in black light, of fruiting olives finning silver, fanned sage-leaf over bleached feathergrass where bees enflesh their bold, brassy honeycombs –in this margin of humid compost