I miss being a small girl so I braid my hair.
I stop watching this country on a tear. I climb into
the crown of our tree like it’s a lighthouse. Driving
into neighborhoods at night, I wait for Christmas lights.
The energy it takes to make each bulb turn red or green, heat
flooding a circle. I like the blinking ones and hang onto
my breath when they go blank. I clap when they come back.
Coming back from a wreck feels like eating an orange like an apple.
An outline of my face on the airbag. Bruises sitting in my lap.
I can’t forgive people who drive by without slowing down
to see how hard I’ve tried to keep everything alive.
Everyone fed and bathed. Wading into a cave is one way
to get clean after you’ve been crushed against a wheel.
I’m breaking sandstone in my fire hands, smuggling in light.