“I used to have a brother, did you know?”

“Is that so?”

-

“Yes, my first

seven years, he visited us in

Canpásapa-wi, the month when

chokecherries are ripe.

-

He had round resin eyes with

lids languishing like sienna cowls.

When we were kids, he’d take me

on walks to admire the forest flora.

-

Voice slanting pure like rain,

his lips tipping upward in kinship,

he would point ‘Look, little wren:

Canpa'hu, the bitterwood stem.’

-

One afternoon I found him napping

by his favorite flowers, scattered seeds

outlining his profile, the scene seemingly

engulfed in a shrieking, dissonant peace

-

when my mother dropped my hand, and-and-

his grandfather lamented another

crippled limb.

-

11 growing seasons

stain my skin-

astringent

chokecherry red

crushed

in my palms: the dye

will not scrub away

-

(because the plant is not what poisoned him.)