I feel the heat even though I surround myself
with Devil’s root (stuffed in my pillowcase,
in my drawers & pockets).
Grandfather taught me it is a root to trip
the feet of Satan & his minions;
he left some in the box he gave me.
I fall on my bed & firmly press my back against the quilt.
I practice the positions (first, second through fifth)
because if you don’t touch the ground,
it doesn’t count as dancing.
First position:
It’s not your fault you lived.
Second position:
Until you are alone.
Third position:
Fault lines multiply.
Fourth position:
So you sacrifice.
Fifth position:
For accidently living, for being so filled
with life, death did not recognize you.
TEXT I SEND SANI
I found a phone.
TEXT SANI SENDS (3 SECONDS LATER)
Hello (Moth). I was hoping you would.
TEXT I SEND SANI
So, here for summer?
TEXT SANI SENDS
My mom (white) left my dad (Navajo) in New Mexico 2 years ago.
He was gentle, but busy with healing.
Mom wants me to live here in this white house.
With her new white family.
She thinks it will be good for me.
TEXT I SEND SANI
You offer a lot of information.
TEXT SANI SENDS
You offer very little information.
TEXT SANI SENDS (5 MINUTES LATER)
You also walk like there are clouds beneath your feet.
Your eyes move like you think everyone is dancing.
Your voice is thick & smooth, like honey in a beehive.
It’s fine. You don’t have to answer.
You can ignore me, honey.
TEXT I DO NOT SEND SANI
The curve of your lip has a nick, why?
I am a dancer, but I only dance with the air now.
Your hair reminds me of the sky before the moon rises.
Why do you take pills?
My brother (Zachary) used to take
blue-and-white pills (for the black hole in his center).
When the pills worked, he played guitar sitting on
the kitchen counter.
When the pills worked, I’d weave a dance from the melody.
Your name means “wise.” I googled it.
They (the entire school) will stop calling you wolf boy—
at my old dance studio they stopped calling me blackie & dusty.
Eventually they’ll get bored.
TEXT I ACTUALLY SEND SANI
I used to dance.
Do you sing & play often?
TEXT SANI SENDS BACK
Honey, you’ve been dancing since I saw you.
I used to sing often. I used to play often.
TEXT I SEND BACK
Sani, you are always tapping something.
Your voice plucks out notes
even when you are talking.
TEXT SANI SENDS BACK
I guess we are both muffling
our passions, for reasons.
TEXT I SEND BACK
For reasons …
I USED TO DANCE
Before the car crash I was a dancer—
I conquered gravity while breaking my toes.
I kissed the ground with every step.
Being a dancer is like your name, though. You can’t stop being one
just because your toes don’t fracture in your pointe shoes.
After the crash, I am still a dancer, but only in my head.
’Cause dancing feels too joyful, too greedy now.
Dad (Jim) used to run with me every Sunday & Thursday
because dancing like a pebble skipping over water
means your lungs have to be good at catching their breath.
Mom (Marcia) came to every dance competition.
She sat in the front row recording everything on her phone.
I could hear her whispering—Now that is how you move—on the recordings.
I still go on long runs & pretend
Dad’s heavy footfalls echo
sure, steady, and watchful beside me.
I still play Mom’s recordings sometimes, on an old laptop,
when it’s hard to remember her voice—
Now, my girl knows how to love the air.
Mom, Dad, Zachary, and I listened to endless songs & stitched together
a playlist for the big day—
the day I would audition for Juilliard. The list grew like taffy,
something sweet always strung between all of us.
I have not danced with my feet on the floor
since the car split in half like a candy bar.
I stretch, though.
I sit in the splits.
I lie on my back
&
insist on breaking my toes on nothing.
IF I WENT TO THERAPY, I THINK IT WOULD GO LIKE THIS
Therapist: You can’t live too hard, Moth.
Therapist: You can’t live too hard, Moth.
Therapist: You can’t live too hard, Moth.
Moth: Then why did death forget me?
Moth: Then why did death forget me?
Moth: Then why did death forget me?
Therapist: Less living won’t bring them back, Moth.
Therapist: Less living won’t bring them back, Moth.
Therapist: Less living won’t bring them back, Moth.
Moth: I no longer drink the juice of the sun.
Moth: I no longer drink the juice of the sun.
Moth: I no longer drink the juice of the sun.
Therapist: I recommend meeting more. Perhaps making friends.
Moth: My grandfather says our ancestors are never gone.
But I don’t know enough conjure;
Grandfather passed to heaven before I learned & now
the devil keeps nipping me through the ground,
like he forgot one of his prizes,
begging me back down
down
down.
REASONS I HATE SUMMER
Three months of waiting in a silent shell.
I can’t think of anything except snapping in two.
My scar is chapped & my face tans & it shows more.
Reasons I Might Not Hate This Summer
1. There is a boy who carries mountain smoke on his breath.
2. He has cedar around his neck & tattoo-laced skin.
3. He sings like fog being pulled from the lake.
4. He plays like birds’ wings kissing the wind.
5. He lives ten houses down.
6. I don’t understand why, but he sees me (Moth).
BLACK WITCH MOTH
The largest species of moth is an omen & a blessing—
depending on who you ask.
A butterfly & a moth both birth the same—
melt their innards & reassemble.
One pretties the day, the other hunts the night.
Mom said, That’s the difference between Black & white—
it’s harder to sway your hips when you are crafted to hunt.
I always thought I could be both.
If you’re asking me, I’d go with facts:
Moths came first by several million years.
Butterflies were made from the ribs of moths.
I’d rather have wings that stretch like taffy,
that swoop instead of flutter.
I’d rather be feared & blessed
than be too perfect.
Dad said, Sometimes you have to dig deep,
get a little dusty, to bury
the seeds of your dreams.
I don’t mind digging.
I’d rather be dusty—
somethin
g you can’t touch
without getting a little dirty.
I’d rather migrate,
like the black witch moth—
instead I keep finding myself
in the place I want to leave.
AUNT JACK IS LEAVING FOR THE SUMMER
She doesn’t say it to my face;
she is not that brave.
I don’t know if me borrowing her phone
& replacing it with John the Conqueror root
was the last straw. I am bad like that—
sometimes I take what I should not
because I live too hard
& that is why the devil nips at me.
She leans on the fireplace, screaming at the urns,
offering oranges to the spirits.
Small hiccups erupt from her lips
like hopeless bubbles popping around the house.
I can’t do this. I am leaving for the summer (she screams).
I need to get away. I can’t live with your ghosts (she whispers).
I take the stairs two at a time. I don’t let her whip around
& apologize.
I get it. I am the problem.
I hate me, too.
For living & now strangling
myself into living small.
I get that she can’t sit with sadness anymore.
I pace until night drifts in & I hear something
in the backyard. I open the wooden blinds
& Aunt Jack is digging a hole. She is whispering words,
leaving a picture & pouring whiskey on the ground.
I wonder what Grandfather would say to this Hoodoo work.
Trying to forget instead of remembering your ancestors.
I guess pain does that—it makes you want to forget.
GOODBYE NOTE STUCK TO THE FRIDGE
I am so sorry, I can’t stay.
Please
forgive
me.
DUST #1
I don’t forgive her.
I muffle a sob & dust coughs
onto my brown hands.
My insides
are as shriveled up
& dry as dirt.
I am choking on dirt.
TEXT I THINK ABOUT SENDING SANI
I am alone & it’s my fault.
Sometimes I think I hear things in the house
& sometimes I feel hands tugging me into the ground.
My aunt (Jack) left for the summer.
I am 17 years old & I guess I can take care of myself.
Sometimes I think I will become so paper-thin,
my scar will tear open
& my soul will fall out,
filled with stars & sticky as the universe.
I think I might have a party.
I tried this living small thing—
it only took another person away.
TEXT I SEND SANI
My aunt bailed for the summer.
I am going to throw an epic party.
TEXT SANI SENDS BACK
Nothing. He doesn’t answer.
INSTAGRAM PARTY POST
I don’t like any pictures of me,
so I just create an image in black & white that says:
SUMMER IS FINALLY HERE PARTY.
I tag everyone—
the kids who call Sani wolf boy,
blond & crimped (butterfly),
the basketball team & the soccer team
& the football team
& the chess squad & the debate group.
I want them to trash the house
& for the police to come.
I want my aunt (Jack) to be called.
I want to rage.
I want to be a thunderstorm.
INSTAGRAM POST RESULTS
I find streamers in the attic.
I make a playlist of chill & funk,
bake brownies & set out chips
that I won’t eat, but I want them to eat.
I want them to be stuffed & friendly.
I even borrow a few bottles of Aunt Jack’s wine.
Then
this
happens.
No one shows.
Not even Sani.
I log on to Instagram—
comments litter the invite.
What a sick joke.
Who would come to this?
I would not be caught dead there.
No one liked the post.
Not a single person.
I leave out the food, an offering for the ancestors.
I hope they sit & eat.
At this point I’ll even take
the company of the heated hands of hell.
THROUGH THE WINDOW
I stomp down the front steps,
down one
two
six
ten houses
& find a large picture window, displaying a boy (Sani),
a girl, a mom & a dad, like a movie.
It’s a very late dinner
& napkins cover laps before
they bow their heads.
Sani is shaking his head no
& his mouth is sealed the same way
it was at school.
I can hear his (step)father scream,
You are going to college for business. I don’t care how sad
it makes you.
You won’t be a lazy artist. I won’t pay for that.
I hear Sani yell,
I don’t want anything from you.
Say something, Mom,
why don’t you ever say something?
She (Mom) places a pill
in Sani’s hand.
My anger evaporates like mist touched by the sun.
Sani rolls it between his thumb & index finger—
blue and white.
He plops
it
into his mouth,
drinks & slams the glass, hard,
so hard
on the table.
It shatters around his fingers; blood
floods the napkin.
She (Mom) grabs his plate & rushes to the kitchen.
His step(father’s) fist connects with Sani’s shoulder
before he heads toward the kitchen.
She (sister) pulls her teddy bear out
from under the table
& places it in Sani’s bloodless hand.
Something crashes in the kitchen.
Sani flinches.
My heart cracks
& Sani hears it, because he glances at the window.
He swallows, blinks, shakes his head,
crosses the desert between us,
but I am already running away.
AT LEAST THE ANCESTORS WERE HUNGRY
When I get home the food is still out
but the colors are dull.
Grandfather used to say,
That is how you know
the ancestors took the energy from the food.
So at least I am not all the way alone.
I go out into the woods behind Aunt Jack’s house,
jacketless, with a basket hooked in the crook of my arm
to hold herbs, roots. A flashlight to guide the way.
Moths slam into the flashlight glass;
they are confused because night drapes
over everything except the light.
Here I am the bright thing,
killing things again.
It is cold.
Like winter has suddenly
sleighed into these woods.
I sit & sit.
Get colder & colder.
So cold, I think of falling
through the ground.
Until …
Moth, is that you? Honey, are you cold?
Moth, talk to me.
Honey, I am so sorry.
Sani grips me at the waist
& behind the knees, lifts me like air.
I nuzzle into his neck that smells
of witch hazel bark.
>
He climbs the stairs, opens the front door,
places me on the sofa, tucks me in a blanket.
I am cocooned.
There’s really no one here?
Your aunt left?
I nod slow, feeling the warmth come back
& I start to shake.
Sani rubs the back of his neck
before untucking
the blanket
to tuck himself in beside me.
TEXT SANI SENDS WHEN HE’S GONE IN THE MORNING
Sorry we both had a bad night.
I didn’t expect to see you.
I didn’t want you to see me like that.
I am like that a lot. I have some issues.
My stepfather is religious; he thinks I am evil.
Sometimes he … never mind.
I’ve given up smoking. You’re right.
Sorry no one came to the party.
They don’t deserve your company.
Sorry your aunt left.
Sorry. Sorry. I am so so sorry, honey.
TEXT I WANT TO SEND SANI
I didn’t mean to see you
through the window
surrounded by glass fracturing like glitter.
I didn’t know where else to go.
I think the moon led me
to your doorstep.
TEXT I SEND SANI
What’s the tattoo above your wrist?
& where are you applying?
TEXT SANI SENDS BACK
Five finger grass.
I’ve had it forever.
& nowhere.
I was, but not anymore.
TEXT I SEND SANI
In Hoodoo five finger grass
tempts others to do your bidding.
I deleted my Juilliard application.
TEXT SANI SENDS BACK
Dreams change
& you know your plants.
Like a medicine man.
TEXT I SEND SANI
Me (Moth) Page 3