wash your hair

there’s a lot of names in tuba city
keith says, listing a few:
stewpot
black widow
airplane
navajo jesus
20dollar woman
hot mama grandmother of sparse english chimes in
and trish and i and grandmother
laugh so hard
our eyes shine
_______
orange flameglow on
grandmother’s face while she
slides the top of the living room stove
over and drops
a hunk of coal in
_______
lightning keith says the people
who do the lightning ceremony
don’t eat chicken
just like you
_______
trish’s wild rice pilaf and
grandmother’s frybread for lunch
and grandmother’s frybread
for second lunch
warm and puffysoft in our hands
_______
heard through the window
from inside to out
radiosound: have a holly jolly christmas
it’s the best time of the year
pasted into the expanse of
all that desert wind and silence
_______
two tutorials
in water siphoning
from the 55gallon blue barrels
into 5gallon buckets
first under the dusty dawn sky
with grandmother
second with grandfather
and a 2″ diameter hose
from barrel in truckbed to barrel alongside the house
each time a matter of trial
_______
trish and i laughing at each
wash your hair demand/request
first from keith
then from grandmother
pointing at me
across the table
_______
we grab handfulls of wool
while seated along woodstove
plucking burrs, thorns and other deserty dried vegetation
from scraggly strands
shaking sand into the garbage
_______
first stop-by in the days i’ve been here:
white pick-up, dogs barking and the red-hatted
man anouncing himself from
the hopi land comission
and the word relocation is
discernable (because there is no word
for this in diné)
_______
chomping a bite off
juniper tree just like
the sheep do
for a texture (surprisingly tender)
and taste (expectedly strong) experience
to see what it might be like
for the sheep

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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