by Devin Poleyumptewa
I can always remember the stretch of the sun
drying out the pavement, suspended days,
someone flying down the back road, empty edge of the suburbs,
meeting their friends
in the brush, and dirt, and sand of the park.
as something alive.
I have always tricked myself
into seeing furious tidal waves
in the silhouettes of the mountains
as the setting sun gives them their blue tint.
Stucco walls and jaded concrete
lost in a wash of brown.
Where the storm of a father’s skin color
and a white kid’s claim
puts metal around your neck, drags you around.
I can’t try to see daylight in the brush of your mountains,
or your towering saguaros,
but I’ll say I will.
I’ll say I do, to stop the conversation
from going any further,
but the glaze of my eyes falls apart
at the same place the mountains touch
My endless desert sky,
I am not your daughter,
don’t wrap me in your arms
as countless cars have wrapped themselves
around lonely telephone poles,
sending sirens into silence,
keeping a road of busted street lights company.