Breathe.
Angled precisely through the cloudy sky,
morning light strikes the hills that push
sagebrush spines against it,
wheaten grass burnished copper,
then gold.
My wedding ring left a scab
around my finger.
Dew, wet on the window
Misty fog
Twenty miles to Wapato
Three hundred from Bellingham
And just as many to Chewelah, still pulling me back
Back to that tangle-haired girl
Locked tight in a dome of polished aluminum
Wide enough for me
And only me
Scratching at the doors until my fingernails bled
The purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows
But how can I teach when
Even now
I can't turn the corner without meeting
my own swollen and distorted reflection?
Locked away, hid away
Bound with my own scarf
A needle in my teeth so I can pick
Through the memories
Pick through the dreams
Pick the lock and stumble to
The hills of Yakima
Still breathing.
Listen.
This wonderful sound will draw you back
To the future
And the present
And the past
To the man you love
And the house you are learning to build
Out of windows