the feeders

there is a place shadowed 

by ancient

  reverent rock

her name is-

      WeeMagooah 

she watches this place

protects it

swallows it whole in a sea of sagebrush

pinon and juniper

since the beginning

it was home to early nomads

whose trails followed the buffalo

her heart pounds 

Núu-agha-tʉ̱vʉ̱-pʉ̱

commonly known as, Ute

a people who spoke in nature's tongue

whose palms reflected the riverbeds 

and hair the wings of ravens

whose babies were swaddled in soft leather

mothers' hands stained by serviceberries 

and fathers returning on horseback 

their hooves adding impression to compact desert

welcomed by harvests of dandelion root

amaranth and chokeberry

later elk hides would be traded for guns

and the people and their land would be parceled

the mesas still bleed red

she thinks,

these people knew me by name

sung me into being

I will always remember them

years went by

the land still remembering

the place welcomed early pioneers 

who fed ash tree to wood stoves

and dug snaking channels for snowmelt

who planted apple orchards

and celebrated their fruits with succulent pies

or by singing the sweet into jars

painting the root cellar into a gem mine

she smiles,

this place has been home to many 

to those with watchful eyes

and hungry hearts

today a place where the call of morning roosters

reverberate against pink limestone

and warm sourdough rises with the sun

a place where border collies chew on red afterbirth

and yellow warblers follow early frost

where mid-day hawks circle the north

and bellies compete with the fullness of the moon

where broth boils incessantly 

and the kitchen swells with good cooking

drawing in the hungry

                        curious

                        and full 

this place has been taken care of by gentle hands

earth held in the formation of prayer 

souls laden with soil 

whose bones sing with desert 

and flesh cry with heat

she sings,

these are the people who heal

                these are the people

                                 who feed

becoming pando

i am told there is an aspen grove

with roots that hold hands so tightly

they are acknowledged as 

one single organism

if one tree dies

the others mourn in sickness

and if a sapling grows

sugar is sent

my chest is heavy

i relocate my breath 

i wish to understand 

the same belonging 

what foresters call

"a stand"

. . .

some days are broken

but minutes add to daylight

hawks and herons migrate back
to an early greening homeland

matching my gaze to their sky

i feel my heels lift

arms reach

chest rise

things are shifting

but while the mountains 

still swallow the sun 

at early dinner

pain invites me in

bad habits clog up the kitchen drain

i bleed on bicycle seats

and scream into soft palms

it is by self abandon i feel myself rot

old fruit tossed on roadsides

when with others

i am dust collected on windowsills

i am a back burner slow burning

i am them 

                before me

. . .

 i rest my hands on the soft of my stomach

 soften my gaze

and listen

she bleeds,

"why do you
love them
                before me

 i need you here
  more than ever"

holding her
i mourn my deaths, these old ways of being
and send sugar to new growth

. . . 

instead of dividing myself in two
i look at my hands
stained by july citrus

i lick up the syrup

and kiss the soft in the crook of my arm
accepting humanity in the shadow of divinity

i breathe,

"i am"

you are safe here

there is a stirring in my heart

a sweet thrum that asks i sit to listen

and pay a visit

to forgive my mother for manifesting her pain into mine

to forgive my father for instilling the inner voice of never enough

i line the walls of my stomach with calendulas

filling me with the warmth of the sun

and absolve from resentment

"you cannot apologize for your truth.

in this place, i forgive you."

the laundromat caught on fire

but i don't react much these days

nor do i expect much in return

or sit on swingsets

i have forgotten many things that i once knew by heart 

the last four digits of my grandparents phone number

the green glint of summertime cicadas

twirling in tinsel

 happy outings with dad

"where did i go"

i have to remember my body is capable of healing

that these surfacing realities are just misunderstood children

they need just to be held

and told,

 "you are safe here"

there have been many times where i have not felt safe here

times that left me as empty jars 

the hollow in tree stumps

a broken wasteland

it is hard to love in a world that does not understand softness

it is hard to love in a world that rarely welcomes the tender

it is hard to love in a world that exploits the earth

how this planet is treated, i'm seeing, is a reflection of my own hollowness

a collective hollowness

i wish to help and understand her

to wrap her up and say "you are safe here"

but it is not safe here

the people who inhabit this place hold little to nothing sacred

pissing in plastic and tossing up tin foil

hugging fallacies 

i'm still in search of somewhere untouched by human hands

meanwhile, i'm healing the places that have held her in ways she had never hoped for

i am pressing my ear to her ground

letting her know that i hear her

that i'm here to listen

and among all this, 

i feel myself rotting alongside her

we have both tolerated a lot

a lot

but we still manage to grow from these gashes

to forgive those who have held us in ways we had not hoped for

and continue on, changing with the seasons

shedding our skins to welcome relief

it is in my contract to embrace this wasteland

to embrace its reflection of my dire state

and cultivate my truth

. . .

so i sink my heart into her soil

and pray for her to hear its song

in response,

 i hear a most loving song

"together, 

we are safe here"

salt into sap

i asked my body to point out the hurt

and she's responding in waves

i ask her to turn salt into sap

to make the process easier
smoother

but we both know sap doesn't make open wounds burn out the bitter

she tells me i'll be able to listen to those songs again

that it won't show up in my parenting

that i'll be able to retrace soiled ground barefoot

speaking in my mother tongue without sting

and i know she's right

although i may not be able to hang up those photographs

i can smile with them

and sleep with my jaw no longer clenched

she holds wisdom where i thought i could not find her

she holds grief and love with equal measure

and asks that i bleed them onto my blank canvases

my yet to be written poems

and empty mic stands

she stems out in the elderberry growing outside

the kind people met by coincidence
and every baby smile

she knows the medicine i need
 all i need is to listen
and show trust by diving into her waters

. . .

my heart valves are teaching me how to be open

i'm learning to feel pain without holding onto it

to say, "thank you for showing me what i chose not to see 

but so much needed to" 

with each grain of salt i'm learning to love it all over again

more fiercely 

honestly

limitlessly

as i pour salt into wound, 

my body asks me to take off my shoes at the doorstep
to stand tall

to no longer squint at the sun

to sing out my hurt
to no longer fear surrendering to my own depth
rather to watch its hope song guide me to my healing

she said, it was only i that could reach her
only i

i now find myself reaching for salt
the true recipe of healing
that which brings out what is truly most sweet

I took last weeks poem I wrote and changed up a few parts and updated it to how I feel currently. The ending is different, and feels right.

...

balancing honey tides

I washed my hands

and told myself it was time 

to "come back home"

I'm trying not to let my voice slip beneath the car stereo 

there are words that should be said only at stop lights

or roundabouts

I once loved a boy

who snapped the necks of pigeons

I told him he was being sadistic

he argued it was, "humane"

this response left lemon rhine on my tongue

I wanted to scream

I replied, "there are less juvenile ways to release sexual frustration"

he didn't think that was too funny

he was raised in a family that taught him not to hit girls

I thank them for that

she told me her dad emailed her on her birthday

and she still feels strange responding

but she hugs her little brother like he is the world

and laughs in white daffodils

you are such a gift

and I'm going miss you more than life when you leave

I'm sorry, dad

I'm sorry that I don't make decisions fast enough

I'm sorry, mom

I'm sorry I forgot to turn off the burner

and thank you thank you thank you

for being the reason there's such a place as home

and that I no longer wish my eyes weren't as brown

or skin as olive

or bottom teeth as crooked

because of you, I know my worth

you taught me unconditional love

to laugh at the caved dent in the wall from my roller-skates

to let things go, so that better things can come

thank you, love you

I was once told 

the first rule in thermodynamics is 

"energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed”

I cannot help but feel that God is more than real

we are constant, but our ideas are not

as they continue to evolve and change 

so does the soul

I've learned to understand that the human spirit truly is boundless

that the roots of our hair

and marrow in our bones

have been here longer than we have

they have seen the rise and fall of roman empires

ongoing wars germinated from ignorance and pride

and flower fields spurring from those soiled grounds

and so so so much healing

I watch friends drive to my favorite songs

with boys that make them feel like adults

I eat frozen raspberries with drizzled honey everyday

and I never open my shutters

last night, my grandma gave me a mantle piece

with several species of butterflies pinned to cotton

she told me months ago I could have it when she was dead

I hope she forgot she said that

I hope she decided to just give it to me many years too early

a year ago, he used to look at me in class

but I straightened out my skirt

and turned my head the other way

I did not like how he made my words feel like they sputtered and stained

he liked the same weird shit as me

and I thought that made us soulmates

but I realize that's just superficial garbage

now we say hi and smile at each other in the halls

and I feel nothing but healing

we care, but not in that way anymore

I embroider when I'm angry

and openly burp on first dates

but blush when I make eye contact

some mornings I clamp my fists to my bathroom counter

and tell the person in the mirror to be less of a goofball

to be more feminine

to not do cartwheels when I wear skirts

but I never listen

I realized recently that beauty is a state of being

a cultivated feeling

so I'll do as many cartwheels as I like

and avoid the voices who say I will never find a man who could love me

a man is not a man if he cannot cradle and marvel at individuality

and puts a cap on growth

I love being me

and I hope when I am with others they learn to love them too

a friend once told me she tries to play the piano

by letting the music rise through her stomach

and flow from her chest

bleeding over black and white keys

I thought that was beautiful

and her good intentions flood with God behind them

and I never will forget how we drive up mountains together

and shout out rolled down windows why we love ourselves so much

and why we're so sad

and why we're so happy

and why we're so thankful

there are moments I want to live in forever

I ask God to play them back in my dreams

he hasn't yet

on my 17th birthday, “The Wind” by Cat Stevens beamed behind lit candles 

weaving through the hearts of a small family built by understanding

and in that instance, things finally started making sense

never in my whole life have I felt more proud that I am still here

and so are the scars from days of tree climbing

the dried eucalyptus that hangs on my windowsill 

and the caved dent in the wall from my roller-skates

these are the small markings that will remember my tread

I don't know why your fiancé left you the way he did

but I always thought you looked prettiest when you disco skated under fluorescent lights

and laughed with your eyes closed

all I can see is you tugging on his arm and him hovering over you in your pink bedroom

it makes my stomach curdle that he treated you like a child

I wish I knew what to tell you to make you feel better

but I don't

so hold my hand until you feel his ghost pass

don't let your night stand become a graveyard

I too often visualize myself running as fast as I can into space

and watching the earth spin from the moons perspective

but I want more than anything to fall in love with now

                                               with here                                      

                                             with me

   

and I am

it's just easy to forget

so I'll remember how it felt to sit by riverbeds

hands stained by pomegranates 

I'll let my body dictate the music

and plant sunflower seeds in my palms

so that everyone I hold hands with will see a field of yellow

I'll tell myself every day I am a work of art

and know that God has never forgotten to paint my honey scheme sunrises

I know I'm in good hands

I know things don't work out so that better things can

I cannot wait to cry with tomorrow

and beam about every brilliant little thing

butterfly's 

moon tea

symphonies 

I realize now,

that the heart was right when she said

“there is no need for further searching,

you are already home”

and for the first time,

I am filled

Balancing Honey Tides

balancing honey tides

I washed my hands

and told myself it was time 

to "come back home"

I'm trying not to let my voice slip beneath the car stereo 

there are words that should be said only at stop lights

or roundabouts

I once loved a boy

who snapped the necks of pigeons

I told him he was being sadistic

he argued it was, "humane"

this response left lemon rhine on my tongue

I wanted to scream

I replied, "there are less juvenile ways to release sexual frustration"

he didn't think that was too funny

he was raised in a family that taught him not to hit girls

I thank them for that

she told me her dad emailed her on her birthday

and she still feels strange responding

but she hugs her little brother like he is the world

and laughs in white daffodils

you are such a gift

and I'm going miss you more than life when you leave

I'm sorry, dad

I'm sorry that I don't make decisions fast enough

I'm sorry, mom

I'm sorry I forgot to turn off the burner

and thank you thank you thank you

for being the reason there's such a place as home

and that I no longer wish my eyes weren't as brown

or skin as olive

or bottom teeth as crooked

you taught me unconditional love

to laugh at the caved dent in the wall from my roller-skates

to let things go, so that better things can come

thank you, love you

I watch friends drive to my favorite songs

with boys that make them feel like adults

I eat frozen raspberries with drizzled honey everyday

and I never open my shutters

last night, my grandma gave me a mantle piece

with several species of butterflies pinned to cotton

she told me months ago I could have it when she was dead

I hope she forgot she said that

I hope she decided to just give it to me many years too early

a year ago, he used to look at me in class

but I straightened out my skirt

and turned my head the other way

I did not like how he made my words feel like they sputtered and stained

he liked the same weird shit as me

and I thought that made us soulmates

but I realize that's just superficial garbage

now we say hi and smile at each other in the halls

and I feel nothing but healing

we care, but not in that way anymore

I embroider when I'm angry

and openly burp on first dates

but blush when I make eye contact

some mornings I clamp my fists to my bathroom counter

and tell the person in the mirror to be less of a goofball

to be more feminine

to not do cartwheels when I wear skirts

but I never listen

I realized recently that beauty is a state of being
a cultivated feeling

so I'll do as many cartwheels as I like

and avoid the voices who say I will never find a man who could love me

a man is not a man if he cannot cradle and marvel at individuality

and puts a cap on growth

I love being me

and I hope when I am with others they learn to love them too

a friend once told me she tries to play the piano

by letting the music rise through her stomach

and flow from her chest

bleeding over black and white keys

I thought that was beautiful

and her good intentions flood with God behind them

and I never will forget how we drive up mountains together

and shout out rolled down windows why we love ourselves so much

and why we're so sad

and why we're so happy

and why we're so thankful

there are moments I want to live in forever

I ask God to play them back in my dreams

he hasn't yet

when we danced in that church parking lot

I twirled with velvet fringe

and I remember thinking his legs moved like noodles

I haven't felt that happy in a long long time

we should've stayed for another song

I should've took better note of that particular shade of sky

but I also wouldn't change anything 

I don't want to forget what it felt like to be there

or here

I don't know why your fiancé left you the way he did

but I always thought you looked prettiest when you disco skated under fluorescent lights

and laughed with your eyes closed

all I can see is you tugging on his arm and him hovering over you in your pink bedroom

it makes my stomach curdle that he treated you like a child

I wish I knew what to tell you to make you feel better

but I don't

so hold my hand until you feel his ghost pass

don't let your night stand become a graveyard

I too often visualize myself running as fast as I can into space

and watching the earth spin from the moons perspective

but I want more than anything to fall in love with now

                                              with here                                      

                                              with me

   

and I am

it's just easy to forget

so I'll remember how it felt to sit by riverbeds

hands stained by pomegranates 

I'll let my body dictate the music

and plant sunflower seeds in my palms

so that everyone I hold hands with will see a field of yellow

I'll tell myself every day I am a work of art

and know that God has never forgotten to paint my honey scheme sunrises

I know I'm in good hands

I know things don't work out so that better things can

I cannot wait to cry with tomorrow

and beam about every brilliant little thing

butterfly's 

moon tea

symphonies 

I cannot let myself forget