My mother weeps from her grave
over my mismatched furniture
and dustballs gathering in dark corners
while I meditate, toes pointed
towards the rumble of dead horses
over my rooftop.
Dust is relative, I say,
in a useless attempt to quiet her.
I speak aloud of the horses,
their manes tangled by the wind
and the blood of slain buffalo,
hearts pounding from that last hunt,
before our houses herded them
deep into the black ground
to dream their memories of freedom.
You're crazy, my mother tells me.
