IV.
That brings it back to me. I remember
She who wasn’t spoken of— each Red Vine
costed a nickel, that easy twine
across the street from our little red-bricked
house— They say she drove so fast
she turned into a whorl of smoke
behind Table Mesa the day she died.
Dad says he remembers the first time he died,
that long bus ride when they took him
to Utah for school. He had been memorizing
land formations: an angel the size of his hand
disappeared and after that, he was so empty
from crying & so full of remembering
rocks he just fell asleep. He remembers
stealing pennies from his foster sister
to buy red licorice. He was always in trouble
for that or for sling-shotting the chickens.
Only three survived the morning massacre.
Only one sheep was taken from the flock.
They stole it, all those Navajo boys—led it
out to the base of the mountains, where
they built a fire and slit its throat:
laughing into the dry
night, fat dripping
from the sides of their mouths.