everything is Dreaming

my hands are asking me to make a basket. i am singing

great holy guardian of sky river

aren’t i lucky that you make a home of me?

what of time that might keep us from spiral?

morph into something still, membranous earth 

echo to rattle along collective cortex.

i know the cry, beginning place and drawn into me

symphony manifested from air of mottled bone

carried close to heart pound chest.

perhaps a beating thunder softer likely

undoing tide of intergenerational ripple

enough to remind kin presence.

more not than often we listen to deep calling

and she falters, aching with flame of yesterday

a black silhouette trapped in curtain.

my ancestors are asking me to make a basket. they are saying

daughter, it is impossible to outrun the past

when Country’s jewel lives in spirit ear.

so she learn ‘em up singing

and —