hungry for piñones

she told him about how
she used to sit beneath the piñon trees
throwing pieces of pottery
as common as rocks and there for us kids to find

how she did her first chew
with Shannon's Indian dad
by the truck on Indian land
on the other side of the acequia and barbed wire fence

about her loin-cloth
spear and war-paint games
on subconcious knowledge
of the savage land that created her

how she climbed the mesas
and ran with the overflowing arroyos
tracking prints and arrowheads as free as rain
peddling old bikes down dirt roads to secret destinations

she told him how she grew up
and now she misses her wild side
remembering the last time she howled like wolf
swooped and sailed like red tail hawk

eating piñones like careless exploration, shell and all

i'm feeling a bit nostalgic - i wrote this poem about my childhood growing up nestled in the Nambe reservation in northern new mexico. my grandfather's rosary was beautiful, packed with family and old friends, a wonderful time capsule video of his life, and everyone cheered and clapped at the end. my eyes stung from crying. family i hadn't seen in twenty years held my face. this morning we go back for the burial, to put my grandfather, my papi memo, in the ground. it's sprinkling outside and the mourning dove call. today i miss all of my friends.