1.

My enemy

has shingled nails

and thick red

wrists. I know him

where he sleeps

and eats.

I call him

the Devil

the White Man

Father.

When I was a girl,

the world was death

and the stench

of this breath, 

and all life

winnowed down

to a luminous

pearl

of light

that I kept

in a coffer

to read by. 

2.

Eventually I went

off to school

but he shadowed

after me always,

and I lived

a perpetual

half-life, 

painting my face

and pretending

away the blood

diamonds.

I was still afraid

of making

the wrong mark

on the page

when you stood up

at the library table

and slowly

coaxed  

a little brown

cricket

out of the air.

For a moment,

it lived

in the palm

of your hand, 

then leapt

onto the paper,

where I watched

the poem

shimmering—

a living thing

composed

of your breath.

For two years,

we wrote

together

at adjacent tables.

You told me stories

and sometimes

my ears hurt

with hearing,

but I listened

intently

to the sound

of your pen

as you dissected

the alphabet,

breaking open

each letter

to show me

its bones. 

3. 

My father is dead now

but his brethren

keep coming—helmeted

men for whom

nothing is sacred—

brandishing cannons

and skewering the earth. 

All I can tell you

you already know:

his law books

are sorcery;

weakness is

the source

of his power; 

he will perish

by his own

chemical hand.

Sometimes it feels

like an age

of scorched dirt

and trash fires

but water

extinguishes flame

and soothes

over the rocks.

I offer

my hands

folded together

in prayer

for guardians

daylight and cold

northern waters—

kissing the riverbed

and speaking

the truth

in audible tongues.

Mni Wiconi.