Song from a Reedless Flute

Sara Littlecrow-Russell

You are beadwork woven by a broken Indian woman

That I mend with cautious, needle-pricked fingers.

You are raw sweetness of burning chaga

Scraping my lungs and startling tears.

You are the bear claw necklace

No longer caressing

The space between my breasts.

You are cigarettes

That I quit years ago,

But sometimes smoke anyways.

You are maple syrup on snow

Melting on my tongue

Until I ache from the cold.

You are the cedar tree

Sheltering my childhood

From unwanted caresses.

You are the star blanket

Sliding off the bed on autumnal nights.

You are a stubborn braid of wiingashk

That must be relit with a dozen matches

Before it releases thin streamers of sweetness.

You are the love song

Played on a reedless flute

That only spirits hear.