white men's bombs, July 22, 2020

burning down the nest

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.