reach deeper into my pockets when I’m looking for a light,

and trust that you’re caught somewhere

between my breath tonight.

Memorial

The bonfire

from last night

had been swallowed

by the earth

and covered with white ash.

We placed lawn chairs

on its grave,

sat on the blanket of dust

and spoke about things

we pretended not to miss—

oblivious to the stubborn

kindling that refused

to let go of the fire

which had burned so strongly

for it once.

Sawdust

Above my bed

hangs a dream catcher

braided by my father.

I don’t know how,

because his hands are sewn from thick leather—

nimble with a buck knife and hammer

but do not seem gentle enough to twist a spider’s web so delicate

it captures his daughter’s nightmares.

My father is a hunter and a carpenter.

My childhood memories are of gutted carcasses

hung like wind chimes and venison cut into butterfly wings;

the smell of sawdust is comforting.

When I was little,

we used to hike up the mountain behind our house,

both dressed in matching long johns.

My middle name is Fawn: completely his idea.

I would run behind like his deer

for fear of getting lost without him.

Arrowheads are buried beneath his tilled skin.

Spirits of old medicine men

sleep between the cracks of his eyes.

The antlers mounted on his wall

are hands reaching like a cradle,

spiked, but I know they are smooth—

they feel like handfuls of wind.

One day, he will leave me.

He says he wants to be taken by a heart attack;

a swift grip, no waiting. I imagine his death—how I wish

to see him float on easy like a shaman

rising from his bed, ignoring his arthritic floorboards.

He will wake me gently.

I imagine it will be cold and early.

The grass beneath our feet will still be sleeping.

I will guide his wrist and elbow like a bow and arrow,

up the mountain behind our house; his life painted

in cold smoke exhales like the breath

shared between peace pipes.

He smells like coffee and baby powder.

Blue marble eyes and wheat field blonde hair.

The morning he dies,

the field will be laced with white flowers.

His bones will be light as eagles.

When he is ready,

we will stop, turn, face

the glow of day, breaking dust and dirt apart

like the sun is just opening her eyes.

My father will whisper dandelion seeds into the air.

I will see him run barefoot through small-town streets,

trapping muskrats between his fingers.

I will see him learn like whiplash

what alcohol and being a man tastes like.

His breath will quicken now.

I will remind him that regret does not exist

when you are a mountain – the dirt

does not repent for its shifting,

it merely holds the roots tighter.

As he begins to drift in and out of light,