I.

Shádí, immersed in canyon,
it was so wet that spring,

this summer. We gripped
our Easter sacks: this was a time of

knowing. You knew when I was
about to—rain, see how it eats
the mouths of our paper sacks,

how it drowns hollow tree
sounds we’d make when leaving
each other in the early dark.

II.

In a photo of us, you were purple,
and I stood in a flower: desert bloom.
Your eyes cradled me. Now, I feel only
your bloom. My cheeks say you must’ve
meant vine and petal to me.

III.

A whistle
   tore out of my throat—

IV.

Give into you, falling:
in breath, we begin to waft.

It’s about to rain at the curve
of mine. I feel all wrought

when I see stars we never sang
through: so many girls in scatter—

Tacey M. Atsitty, Diné, from Cove, Arizona is Tsénahabiłnii (Sleep Rock People) and born for Ta’neeszahnii (Tangle People).

She is a recipient of the Truman Capote Creative Writing Fellowship, the Corson-Browning Poetry Prize, and Morning Star Creative Writing Award. She holds degrees from Brigham Young University and the Institute of American Indian Arts and an MFA in Creative Writing from Cornell University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Florida Review, Drunken Boat, New Poets of the American West Anthology, New Orleans Review, and other publications. Her chapbook is Amenorrhea (Counting Coup Press).