^{After Emily Dickinson’s “There is no Frigate like a Book”}

the small begin of i
in to look 
                       up
all the way
                       up 
the wall of 
books that break 
the heart of a 
child open to love   
who does not yet
know desire except 
when she desires 
cathedrals of words that gather 
dust
await the eye 
—to see was to love—
hungered on hunger 
sweeping across a paginated world
perfected 
in misery in
love in words spent with 
books and time
algorithms of the
ever in spirit 
the extended minute 
stretched to 
goodbye to 
leaved portals
                       to
the worlds 
of other to

forever. 

^{for Jaiden Peter Morgan}

A good poem
is summer
                 my nephew said 
             mirage rising 
from corn fields
midday 
pollen on our tongues
each syllable 
flecked with sunbeams
and names not said 
shiye’ you should know 
the voice isn’t ours alone
    but a dwelling space
    a hooghan’s
    cool inner darkness
    before ceremony 
    it is you 
    who will heal 
    these wounds
a good poem 
is song
            I said
so let there be mountains
singing in all directions
let there be laughter
uninterrupted and innocent 
shiye’ what joy you are
naahoniiłt’ąh
nahałtin
náhoolt’ąh

Imagine you’re an astronaut stuck in outer space. And it’s just you. Only you. What would you write about? What

do you see outside your spaceship windshield? What do you miss? Who is your brother now, all those miles down? Where’s west? What would you have brought, had you known you would be out here, maybe forever, all by yourself?

What about regret? What if 

there are whole days where you don’t think of your hands? How closely related 

is loneliness to remembrance?—when you let yourself think about it?

Do the stars feel heavier now? 

Is there, truly, anything you would do over?—knowing everything you know now? If regret was a type of animal, any animal, what song would it sing in you?

Outside are all these tiny windows you can’t look through. 

Do you miss having a sky to throw wishes against? What did it look like last?—describe the blue. 

What phrases do you miss people saying? By “people” I mean: 

write about something small—but with great detail—about everyone you love. 

What blurs then builds a forest inside you? Is that too specific? Pretend 

it’s summer again and that you’re the fire for it—would it even be worth writing about? 

Would you, by now, meaning in outer space, and very much alone, want to replay the moments of your life you wished had gone differently?—Or have you gotten over it all already? What stage are we in? Is being stuck in space like dying and not getting to ghost-visit your own funeral? Which is the first moment you’d go back to in order to change it? By it I mean where the regret sprang from. Would you feel bad about the rippling? Is worry just a wider room? There is always a box in which regret will fit. After you tape it shut, describe the sound. Describe the blue.