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Phosphorescent Arrows Fourteen kinds of weather a day! Don't put on a yellow slicker for that freshet of rain; ride through the sun shower-- whynot sky blue? Smoke interrupts the afternoon or haze from far-off forest fires-- maybe diaries burning, maybe signals? Already I am out of my cave! Moss agate dreams take human shape; there is ink, ink, and words, too-- working like blazes, sleeping away the volcano in my middle. What's left of a windowless house but grey-timbered cactus journeys? Where are her all-seeing hungry brown eyes? While dancing, I stumbled; I feel like a small bear. Whenever I eat fry bread, I think of grandmother. She knew enough to watch cleansed moons rising from creekwater-- she died in a marathon of coughing. |
Additional Notes:
Dedicated to a grandmother in spirit, of the Cowltize Tribe,
who lived in the shadow of Mt. St. Helens,(L'wetla), dying
of tuberculosis. "Whynot" is deliberate, as those were her
words.
Her granddaughter in spirit writes about her still.
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