Meditative Week of Poetry: Kinsale Drake
Last night we fought again in my dreams. It’s funny how when we do this, our small step-dance, you only speak in Navajo and I understand. This time, it was the egg-blue kettle or tóshchíín pot left on the stove too long, bottom roasted black. Or my favorite dog you’d kicked at, maybe a bit too hard, like the time you swung to save the last chicken and your water broke and my father cried out from the window. You never said I love you after we fought like this. But in my dreams, we cry at the table afterwards, and it is almost like drowning together until I wake up gasping, my mouth wet with tears, thinking the sound of the kitchen door opening is you, running from the table to the dog closing its heavy jaws on the rooster, yelling hágo, shhh! come here, come here.
