Shí łeeshch’iih béénáshniih, I remember ash

łeeshch’iih
across shitáá’
on the inside
of shilátsíín
from the
beesh bii’ ko’í
in the corner
of the
hogan.
My cousins
stand next
to me,
nicknamed Baby
& Chunky
due to their
stature.
We stand
still as
you smear
bilátsoh
from left
to right.
From
left to right.
From left to
right.
The light carves shadows in your face. Dying embers see
new life, lived protection. Your tongue dispels nightmares,
we stand on cold tile, barefoot—listening to you speak
Diné bizaad, a prayer we recognize but can’t translate,
because bilagááná bizaadloves to loot Nitsáhákees.
Wringing adáyi’ tillglottal stops & slashed l’s
brawl, the teachings our masaní dóó amá spent lives
passing on to their ałchini, confronting the
importance of a “good education.”
I wish I learned the prayer you said that night, when 
I woke crying & your warm hands spread warmer
łeeshch’iih on my skin & I could finally
breathe through my nose.
We started another fire & sat watching the glass
glow orange. Shímasaní returned to bed & we finally slept.
“Ałhosh, shiyazh.”