What is Native is Not Mistaken
The shell boy hides his eyes in shallow sleep: if she falls into her sadness like the wakened who wanders a secret night he hopes to follow
gather medicine for anguish as he travels so together they might soften what has been: he should tear his hands collecting blades of corn
or find the root of a plant he’s never seen or steal the tune a meadowlark has sung and could these wash the silence from her rooms?
He hears her teeth write fists into her dreams the sunken cry of someone down a well her cautious motion wishing not to wake him
the sound of watching stars without control the door pulled lightly closed. All’s still. He rises and wears the darkest clothing that he owns
the softest shoes, he tars his face his hands and follows the water fallen from her eyes he chases her along the river’s margin.
She comes upon a clearing’s subtle lights which do no honor to, nor humble men the circle of the forest all around
stands voiceless but repeats if stirred by wind, “To sun or earth, two faces has a leaf; ten thousand leaves complete a single tree; a man is never sure among the trees.”
He cannot enter: there are no walls nor doors. He misplaces the silver ribbon of her tears. Alone amid birches, certain he has lost her.
He calls out with her name at every hour the forest unconcerned that he is there and wanders home at sunrise from his labor.
Just rising from their bed she wonders where he’s been.