Basin
These flood damaged photographs
speak in your voice
Rez timbre, deep for a woman,
they say
There are no pictures
of a shallow grave
that I could paint with any words
sufficient enough
to bottle you up in
The angels drink you down,
golden & smooth,
& I try not to choke
on too much bitterness
I won’t color anything
in shades of prophecy
I can’t be sure what life,
what life’s end,
what the next season,
next dust storm,
or monsoon of change,
will bring,
but you helped my unbelief
I feel pain in my knees constantly
from ingrained praying for you,
& you’re better attentive
& close enough to hear me now,
aren’t you?
One day I will wash your body
for the first & last time
& you won’t be
so heavy anymore
Thistle Thoughts 