Winter

Bit finger tips circle the plane’s
window, February’s quiet,
quiet dwindling

wind—streets blind-
folded—we worshipped
like dogs, licked bone, devoured

whole by snow.

The dark sun found scorpions
in our shoes. A gecko ate
a stunned frog. You

watched, then covered
your back in tattoos, I couldn’t
come back whole—skin cells scalped,

replaced by blue.

On the night ferry, you
blew up the glass moon, rough
scar tissue, said No

I don’t love you. The boat slapped
my mouth, button
fallen off.

Only snow came out.

For Jeff Weiss, Red Lake Reservation

Who were you when you shot
your grandfather, when he lost Thief River,
the Red Valley, your father

to boarding school, when
your great-grandfather’s
sacred tongue was cut

by the bottle. Do you believe
there is a god? you said and shot
yourself, a little thud.

Red valleys ran. Scared hands
prayed. Three days after:
just rain.

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