Tanya Dickinson

for Shamara

That dam did not swallow us, dancing,
Unguarded in its spray.
Two girls climbing to the sound of clacking shale.
I miss my balanced child feet.

What I knew was proportion: the river
Scaling the air, folding in on itself
Pulling up from the bottom.
The mountain fires close enough to touch.
Here is our jagged big sky sun.

Thirst and the smell of pine hum with their own kind of heat
And insects buzz mortality
As the back begins to dry.
In August we were houseflies
Black and belly up.

What mementos we have do not serve.
The rocks dried ugly when removed from their wet frames.
What I know is; the dust is not dead.
The dust gives you the words you were looking for.