We stuffed paper in every crevice — an uncle’s will,
the writ that changed your name, a certificate
of Degree of Indian Blood and one that said O positive. Still
we shivered, your eyes yellow in the lantern’s light.

I roll off the back of a skull strapped on top
of a fox who shape-shifts into the irresistible.

with puberty, a kid with a B
average and a cool best friend.
I don’t think I’ve ever understood
how lonely I am, but I was

The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is in her eighties
and she underestimates the value of everything, for which I am grateful.

to complete the night lying
before the stove’s vents blowing
sooty warm air deep into my
sleeping lungs, clutching

because he fought in a White man's war. How many dead
Indians do they need to feel okay? This whole thing wears
on my soul." In the dark car we go silent, and the fall
night gets chillier. In yards, blazing bonfires mock
the stars that glow palely somewhere above. A thin moon hangs
over the tule fogs. I've never heard the word "debacle”

the dream perfumes all of my days. I go to the post office and
look for stamps with etchings of flowers and fruits so that I can
send letters to the women who loved me in my sleep.

townsfolk who 'believed native girls were easy'
and 'less likely to complain if a sexual proposition led to violence.'

who didn't recognize each other
but intertwining their fingers,
waited for someone else's words
to atone
and explain
and bestow
meaning to words.

“A” is a book-length poem divided into 24 sections, one for each hour in the day.