All right.
I'll close with this poem.
It's called "Evening Beneath Dust."
"I'm blowing smoke, ill thoughts toward the shadows
of old bungalows built before dusk
became an ember rose of ozone and smog.
The highway is smashed with too many glasses for me
to drive east to my sister, who stays with every light
on so that no uncertainty of the darkness can reach her.
She sleeps days.
The house's high ceilings incubate her
while the Sun guards the windows, doors, and closets,
forces into the open a jealous deliverer
whose only opportunity to effect comes on nights with no Moon.
The prayers my sister recites calm, though hardly quell,
like wafers and wine.
Thoughts of saviors from foreign lands,
or boundaries like imagined barriers bisecting an ocean,
summon the idea of God or creator.
My sister calls her mother and father once to ask
if the ch'íídis of our Diné history can be translated
into demons listed in the Goetia.
They know that any girl from love's demise.
So when I call her finally, after hours
walking avenues of reposed guilt, it's not her
I hear, but voicemail.
I say this.
'Old Abraham, the sheep of subservience denied God Isaac,
or was it God denied God?
Abe's blade made me domestic.
He skinned the bush-got ibex, offered it burnt.
His boy ignited the sticks of the altar
pyre he assembled, hungered at what wasn't his to eat.
Isaac spent 200 years at the pitch end
of wells, digging water.
His name, laughter fits when nothing funny was done.
Let's assume angels tickled him.
Why consider drugs, bipolarity, or a curse?
He'd been defined already.'
It's lonely in the thirst of the Sun and the drowning of a well.
The silhouettes and the houses around you
will dance on occasion.
It might not be a two-step or waltz, but a bad lamp,
some faulty wiring, a violent flicker that gets you worried.
Not knowing [NON-ENGLISH] is an unwanted voltage, a flood,
a current engulfing you."
Thank you guys so much.