[it was not the voice of atarah]

after joy harjo

it was not the voice

of atarah

my father

or that childish squeal of baby Niecy

no, it was moonshine slicking parking lot pavement —

“Gotta pour one out for the ancestors cause cuzzo ain’t paid me a

visit in a while...”

the music of flowers and

serpents the color of alabaster,

the sound of stones,

critical of concrete,

freely flung into

a nightscape buzzing

with cicada cries and lightning bugs.

it was the sound of everything breathing

at odd paces —

all of it was me.

then, suddenly, at once,

a greeting

a whisper

a prayer

a mirror.