On Mindfulness

Home is a sound.

 I can hear it

in the western meadowlark, the inlaid rocks in my driveway,

 in the accent and slang

of my mom’s voice.

 It’s engrained

 in her stretched vowels,

in her smashed-together words, in her

 hard Rs,

and in the word rez.

I grew up hearing this rez accent, but I didn’t know my mom had one

until I spent a year

 in the south, where you can’t escape the heat

                in the shade

 because the humidity still clings to you.

I could smell

a Wyoming lake

 and a budding Russian olive tree in her voice,

 matted river moss melting in my hands.

The mental image I had of my mom had fallen

 out of date.

And all my friends from the rez feel the same way. Sometimes we can still taste

 a Maverick 99-cent refill from the location

that got shut down

 because my late grandpa

kept robbing it, can still taste the water

from our old swimming spot                in the drying river,

 can still taste

milkweed sap.

Like burnt brass from a plug                                           separated from a socket,

sometimes there’s a trace when things           detach.