N’dee Biyati’ Abecedarian

as cousins surrounding my ankles. We turn,

become sheep herded in ancestral forest while

chasing each other, evolving shadow under

ch’ígoná’áí as thunder rolls from sky’s hands

downward, waiting to swallow precious

dlǫ’dichiné into its bruising maw, way below—

dził bitł’ááhgee. We agree our mouths into

evening wear, spin lightning as thread,

growing camp dresses from burst clouds,

ghost mothers celebrating the small,

hwéhego working hands. What spirits will

inhabit our closets? Queer ones, fingers

journeying depths of throats, haunting

kisses on a cut lip, the scab a gentle nudge toward

k’edilzeehí in quiet bedrooms. When lovers

leave we gather to play Green Glass Door,

ła’íbiih nándáh, wondering what we can bring.

Maybe someone dead & beyond the yucca will

nudge the door open, waiting to embrace us.

Odats’isgai breaking the curtains of  beyond.

Perhaps when winter returns, we will gather,

stories warming even bitter bones. Children

shushing each other, their laughter a chorus,

traditional medicine of youth. Even with the storms,

t’ąązhį’ násdzaa, holier in painted blue & yellow.

Tł’iish bitseghál adíí as our ankles run past him,

tł’é’ goleeh. Neighborhood dogs bark & scatter,

tsídabesghiz. We say that to pretend our fear away.

Ts’iłtąą, just briefly, this safety. Then we hear

uncles sing from the porch & we race toward

winning smiles, light beaming from teeth-gaps.

Yards of water swell into the garden, drowning

zinnias we had planted the spring before.

Zhą́ we know of returnings, as we always have.