Voicemail

miss you calling me at work

leaving stupid jokes on my phone

like the one about the Arapaho, the Navajo,

and the New York ho’

miss you texting me cartoon stickers and

voicemails in our native Diné

your own private rebellion

against the civilized world

that thought they could erase us

if we had no language to tell us who we are

you taught me the prayers to Sun God

saying the sun will always rise

until it didn’t

leaving a black hole

deep in my bones

the only way back

a fury of erupting lava

all that’s left is a last unsaid voicemail

empty static

and grief too great

to fit into a rhyme scheme