Ancestry
Born: my fear of wind
after the microburst’s lift
of our two-story fir. I smear
eucalyptus on my shoulders
at night when gales visit and
assimilate every garden stone
from its native self, erodes my
neighborhood to noise.
A basket on our porch
is filled with stones
gathered by my mother,
who once collected some
Gold Butte into her purse,
hacked a lump from Mt. Rushmore
behind a ranger and stuffed it
into my satchel. She greeted
Crazy Horse, who never
conceded, and allowed herself
a small helping of granite.
This, heavy in my sweatshirt,
reminded me we were Ute,
not white, corrosion to the original
sand mirror, while Grandpa limped
toward us through spinning dust,
waving his thirty dollars
refunded per Native Discount.
