'Every home I make'

Sending Home Souvenirs

there’s a mountain named for you
nestled in the Arkansas river valley 
only 10 miles past the origins of the 
great river where it breaks from some underground secret place of dark waters
you lay in the shadow of the tallest 
peak in the nation still I know you by name Oklahoma

how is it that in every home I make for myself
you still find some way to follow?
thousands of miles from my first home you’re there melting into the same 
river I swam in as a child

if I sent rafts of twigs through your veins
maybe they would make it to you 
pulled forth on sails made from scraps 
of paper I ripped from my notes I wonder
if the children on Florence would marvel 
at their mysterious appearance

Archaeology of Race

just last month they decided to look for the bodies
buried in unmarked mass graves as if the families
hadn’t cried for justice before now for the
hundreds lost a century ago the moment
our country first turned its back
and dropped bombs on its citizens

we embarked on a morbid treasure hunt not
to find the Spanish gold buried at the edge of the 
Arkansas but to scour the greying grasses in 
corners of cemeteries and school yards for bones
hidden away by local dogs and businessmen

on the north side of the city the sidewalk steps 
lead up from the street into nothing the houses
burned to their foundations long ago still
the land remains: she knows all bones 
are the same color
after the skin burns off

Pet Rock

maybe I picked it up from the back yard
or one of my grandparents might have given
it to me after visiting the rose rock farms 
in the country but one day it was there
the small bundle of minerals went everywhere
with me receiving small plates of dinner and
bedsheets made of soft tissue paper
the crystalline skin of the barite rose glittered
faintly under my nightlight a rose-red lump
of soil still with some secret, powerful life 
at work inside I almost saw it growing
forming folding like a newborn in rolls of
raw skin or feathery plumes of dirt
the faint shine glowed even brighter when
I washed it gently dabbing the pencil-smudged
face on the front without realizing I would cause
the plumbing clogs of pebbles Mom found weeks
later after all our silty bath times in the sink 

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The Tulsa Voice partners with Nimrod International Journal to publish poetry and flash fiction from Tulsa-area or Tulsa-connected writers. Submit your work for consideration using Nimrod’s online submission form at nimrodjournal.submittable.com/submit.