Before dawn, diapers, milk, washing the floors. Skies bathed
by every prayer, sacred wings through snags of stars. You and I
at the kitchen table, a tiny universe. Perhaps the sweet bite
of gossip, laughter, perhaps ghosts and enemies swept clean.
We drink coffee inside the unsteady light, flight of morning darkness
into hushed scarlet. Sorrow, twisted language inside pockets. For
you or I to name a wound, to open the shape of echo and awe,
we recall an eagle circling the blue bowl of sky.
Sources: Joy Harjo, Perhaps the World Ends Here, Eagle Poem, Insomnia & the Seven Steps of Grace, My House is the Red Earth, When the World as We Knew It Ended; Marcelo Hernandez Castillo, Cenzontle
