FROM THE ASH INSIDE THE BONE

Right when all I want to do is tell you a story,

the way wiingaashk (is that the word,

the name for sweetgrass that Kimmerer gives?)

have settled in to the middle raised bed,

the way I greet them in the morning, sometimes

run my fingers through them like a child’s hair,

right when I wanted to tell you a good thing,

a stone to hold and rub in the pocket like skin,

right then, the sickness comes again. I want to write

of the body as desirous, reedy, fine on the tongue

on the thigh, but my blood’s got the spins again, twice

today the world went bonkers. Cracked, careened,

and I come up all clown and out of whack. My body

can’t be trusted. MRI says my brain’s hunky-dory

so it’s just these bouts sometimes, the ground rises

straight up, or I’m trying to walk on water,

except it’s not water it’s land and it’s moving when

it should be something to count on. A field of something

green and steady. Sleep is familiar, though the birds

are starting earlier and earlier, and I keep dreaming

that the sky’s turning to ash, or that I’m falling

through the clouds—tops of pine trees and oceans below.

What does Lorca say? Compadre, quiero cambiar

mi caballo por su casa. Friend, I want to trade this horse

of illness for your house that praises the throat.

I’ll settle for these words you gave me: sweet smoke

and I’ll plant them into my chest so I can take this

circling spell and light it on fire.