It is the long, hot, Pandemic Summer of 2021.
The air is thick with aunts, uncles, cousins,
Bullets,
And unasked for opinions,
Water Moccasin tales swim through 100-degree days that endlessly
Stack.
And Grandma is worrying that Elliot and his cousins are
Swimming in the tank.
It is her land.
She has forbidden the children from walking in the back pasture
Unsupervised.
The dogs pace, tired of being inside,
With teeth, claws, and the call of the wild
Calling,
Elliot is thirteen,
Tender, joyful, safe
with Shayne laughing so loud,
through clay,
Gay flannel photographs,
and the tiktok of summer.
Kona, watches
Triangle ears helicoptering.
In her caring,
She barks until she is hoarse,
Attempting to organize chaos.
I am restless, exhausted,
Weighed down
By horror, history, and loss.
Beauty, love, and heat.
I pull wet oxygen into my lungs
And study trees,
Clay pigeons dissolved by whatever is not nature.
And realize
I want to burn it all down.
Because in the red clay underneath,
We are on Kiowa Land.
And we fucking need to give it back.
Home is just another four-letter word.
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