On Mindfulness
Home is a sound.
I can hear it
in the western meadowlark, the inlaid rocks in my driveway,
in the accent and slang
of my mom’s voice.
It’s engrained
in her stretched vowels,
in her smashed-together words, in her
hard Rs,
and in the word rez.
I grew up hearing this rez accent, but I didn’t know my mom had one
until I spent a year
in the south, where you can’t escape the heat
in the shade
because the humidity still clings to you.
I could smell
a Wyoming lake
and a budding Russian olive tree in her voice,
matted river moss melting in my hands.
The mental image I had of my mom had fallen
out of date.
And all my friends from the rez feel the same way. Sometimes we can still taste
a Maverick 99-cent refill from the location
that got shut down
because my late grandpa
kept robbing it, can still taste the water
from our old swimming spot in the drying river,
can still taste
milkweed sap.
Like burnt brass from a plug separated from a socket,
sometimes there’s a trace when things detach.
