Dry Heat

They tore the old Indian school down. The remains were put into piles in the dirt lot. The emptiness of a previously occupied space by spirits of a suppressed culture, displacement of air. I heard stories about wild horses running around on the walls late at night. Galloping. The desert. Dry heat. broken bloodline arroyos been dried out for years. Filled only with the deranged tears of drunks that found themselves there, not crying out of sadness or happiness, but some fucked up combination of the two. Sunflower skeletons. I heard the stories about llarona and her wailing, we can't go there at night for she may mistake us for her own children. Red handprints on shoulder blades. This is a place where flowers grow out of cement and tangled tree roots distort the sidewalk they hide under. Refuge. I heard a story about an enormous owl on a rooftop. I'd sew up the holes in the featherless if they'd only let me. Refugees. I heard stories about skinwalkers disappearing, leaving behind only the evidence. I saw the pictures engraved in the rock, evidence left behind, they were here before us. Ruins. Handprints. My culture is that of a braided people. Feathers in their hair. Running. We describe light using shadows. Back to dust, we keep writing ourselves into rust. We are the rust of our ancestors past.