Mapping
There are stories to be let loose with comb and water:
Mikushi, my grandmother, who stood among the warriors as the bones
on her breastplate jingled and she was proud.
The young niece who drives hastily into ditches and thinks of forgiveness
as the car turns over and over.
A son who will tighten copper bells to thin ankles and then fancy dance
among fluorescent feathers.
The cousin who chose not to cry out when the walls of her Chevy burst
around her in flame.
One nephew who returns from living in the city, only to realize how much
can change, and how little.
We gather these up again on shoulders and around waists where they endure.
This begins and does not end with a secret: we know only this route home.
Mandy Smoker Broaddus
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