I wake to
red sand I
on full days I
I stop wheels
me I grass
here I meta-
grass I sleep-
open eyes to
blue corn sky
to cook up
I am this
face to plate to
that I’m alone
and I alone am
the one -> pushing
Ȟe Sápa, Five
Inside the wheels of wrists and hands, a white shore of book and shell.
I kneel in the hairline light of kitchen and home
where I remember the curt shuttle of eyes down, eyes up—
where I asked, are you looking at how I’ve become two?
This one combs and places a clip just above her temple, sweeping back the curtain of why
and how come. I kiss her head I say, maybe you already know.
Born in us, two of everything.
As in, each born to our own crown—the highest part of the natural head.
And each born to our own crown—a single power, our distinction.
But I’m dragging myself, the other me, every strand up to the surface. I remember
very little. So I plunge my ear into the hollow of a black horn, listen to it speak.
Not one word sounds as before.