He Who Lit the Antlers Ablaze
hooves against my navel
did you hear the urgency to awaken our bond?
I grew within a womb that cared not carry me
breasts before brawn or sense, a scent to bugling bull
I grew, matured but not nurtured
hunted out of turn
then
I skinned the hide from your father forcefully
a stag’s heart tumbling
my fawn, lit the antlers ablaze
filtering down from the East by hundreds
set in the morning light, this sight of sheds dancing
I saw my son amongst the herd
while just a quickening
Take My Armor, Aim It High
Please dip your fingers into this sweet water and dribble
The droplets down the middle of your scalp
Please take all the eagles I’ve seen because they are plenty
Now pinch salt and pat the part that might sunburn
Touch your heels with it. One, two
Please take the warning given to me over fire one night
I need it not, so please take it unsolicited
Please smear your face with red paint and white dots and put it
Anywhere. I like my cheekbones, but you might favor your heart
Pick a woven basket hung on the walls flecked with spinach root
This one has mud and blood from a hard kneeling dance
It is for someone with strong knees, please, be my guest
The body is protected by minerals, earth’s friendliness
Take my shield, it is made of my own trust, skinned and tanned
Taught over my skeleton and deflecting
Now use this elm bow, her arrows, extra sinew in the pouch
Aim high. By instinct aim high.
Cup your hands and breathe in the armor, inhale
I will be here when you have found your own
Mountain Garb
she could pluck mountain passes between forefinger and thumb
strum them
toss tree skirts up, nose close to pine cones, sweeping up the Rocky range snowcaps
she was cleaning house
dusting off the mountains and the mother that slept through fifteen winters
Wake Up, Up, Up
scarves warmly keep necks from snapping
sloppily sliding down the side of a giant
intoxication was poured into her coffee, earmuffs, memory
she has a bruised tail bone from running
stumbling through the windchill flurry, out of the canyon
blurry, spinning, flipping out from under her mother’s frozen shoe
her forefinger and thumb could strum a flask instead of a mountain pass
but that is hibernation
now is time to Wake, Wake, Wake
in the elevation in the melting snow just make it muddy
we are fresh out of herbal remedies, the compass is broken
dropping down the side of winter
Turkeys, Bucks and Bulls
it was for approval. to show the woman who
came from the Jicarilla hills—I too could skin a buck
it was for the elk bugles, turkey calls, and deer tracks
that would be my son’s first language
it was so the sun had a companion at his rise
we would ride out together, waking the spruce
nudging the dirt with our toes, war cries, early morning lies
it was for buckshot sightings, crouching, breathe, blood, breathe
blessings given, blessings taken, a labor prayer
it was for the speed of skinning
the skill, the sense of some ancestral assurance
here was the leather, here was the sinew, here was the shed
I for myself
here was the fluff, here was the fan, here were the feathers
I shot for you
it was so we could chew the sap
it was for the viscera, the falcon mothers, vulture young
it was for the numb knuckles
it was for the death smell, the love smell
it was so the sun could nod every morning, but the Jicarilla woman never would
Header photo by Tom Reichner, courtesy Shutterstock.