Spoonful of Navajo
“Together we sit perched over the square of light, virgin mouths struggling to swallow old vowels now forced foreign, our throats snapping awkwardly over their branches but singing our way home all the same…”
“Together we sit perched over the square of light, virgin mouths struggling to swallow old vowels now forced foreign, our throats snapping awkwardly over their branches but singing our way home all the same…”
Her hands are smooth and rough,
like rusted metal in the rain.
Her heart is soft, like blue corn mush
on a Saturday morning.