Blue Feather Casa
This house like a mother
a womb to curl into
a place calling for
prayers for the dead
I am an open book
a bible with torn pages
This house like a mother
whose heart is worn
outside the stars
live with hope
of better days
No sleep in the round
snail room, her spiral
empty and full
there is no one
who knows
the song of sorrow
except the raven
Starbird
Death, the only outcome
of living and choosing
we who love wisely and
we who don't
Bring back the magic
my son, my daughter,
my child who cries in the night
where the wild coyotes mourn
In the distance I listen
behind the mauve adobe wall
written across my chest
I find this poem
late into the night
with blue feathered tears.
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