Images: Bruce King
I Am Sorry For Your Loss
I am sorry for your loss, someone says.
Those words crack the sky open, a ripe burnt
hurt, I tally death, my throat marked sore with an X for
Brother, Uncles, Sisters, Grandfathers, 18 unratified treaties.
Those words crack the sky open, a ripe burnt
hurt, I tally death, my throat marked sore with an X for
Brother, Uncles, Sisters, Grandfathers, 18 unratified treaties.
Those words crack the sky open, a ripe burnt
line forms. Something seems to be missing here–
Brother, Uncles, Sisters, Grandfathers, 18 unratified treaties.
I always pack Brother’s death certificate.
line forms. Something seems to be missing here–
Brother, Uncles, Sisters, Grandfathers, 18 unratified treaties.
I always pack Brother’s death certificate.
Line forms. Something seems to be missing here–
Under Brother’s Ethnicity write: Cahuilla, Luiseño.
I always pack Brother’s death certificate
in my broken suitcase, the one that doesn’t stand straight.
Under Brother’s Ethnicity write: Cahuilla, Luiseño.
I always pack Brother’s death certificate
in my broken suitcase, the one that doesn’t stand straight.
Under Brother’s Ethnicity write: Cahuilla, Luiseño.
Nothing fits right in those boxes so I write about
my broken suitcase, the one that doesn’t stand straight.
Pushing it, I refuse to cede to the weight, remembering extermination.
Nothing fits right in those boxes so I write about
my broken suitcase, the one that doesn’t stand straight.
Pushing it, I refuse to cede to the weight, remembering extermination.
Nothing fits right in those boxes so I write about
lingering over Sunday morning oranges, thump of break dancers,
Pushing it, I refuse to cede to the weight, remembering extermination,
canyon road, the steady shake of rattle, Grandmother’s soft lilt,
lingering over Sunday morning oranges, thump of break dancers,
Pushing it, I refuse to cede to the weight, remembering extermination,
canyon road, the steady shake of rattle, Grandmother’s soft lilt,
lingering over Sunday morning oranges, thump of break dancers,
I sing into a tiny cry, the business of mourning.
Canyon road, the steady shake of rattle, Grandmother’s soft lilt.
I crave Brother’s posole, something to feed me warm.
I sing into a tiny cry, the business of mourning.
Canyon road, the steady shake of rattle, Grandmother’s soft lilt.
I crave Brother’s posole, something to feed me warm.
I sing into a tiny cry, the everyday business of mourning.
A simple ritual of story and ash makes me
crave Brother’s posole, something to feed me warm.
I am sorry for your loss, someone says.
A simple ritual of story and ash makes me
crave Brother’s posole, something to feed me warm.
I am sorry for your loss, someone says.
