Storm’s Coming by Nykesha Nez of Diné College

There are burn marks
between the edges of my fingers,
a product of late-night prairie skies that were
too mesmerizing to look away,
even as cigarette ash stains my skin.
Short nails plague my weeping hands,
blood forming on my brown skin
that’s been torn and left in ruin.
Panic steals my lungs
and I try to breathe in the
lingering ends of my exhales
but I’m losing my breath.
I’ve made enemies out of whispers,
they’ve taken the stains from my tears
and used them as excuses to never let me go.
And I know I don’t cry as much as I need to,
I think it’s because I’m still learning
how to trust my solitude.
And I’m not sure when I’m going to die,
but when my time comes,
I want to be buried under the bear-colored buttes
I want the smallest pieces of me to be hidden
under the sagebrush and I want you to
grind my bones and scatter them across the Missouri river.
Let the rain dissolve my skin,
let the beetles and worms break me down in every way,
so I can finally give back to the prairie grass
that whispered prayers into my night skies.
On the statue near my house,
I’ve held sunsets in the palm of my hand
and under its red gaze,
I’ve heard the echoes of eyes closing
and tears falling onto the ground.
Lay my body on the forest floor,
face my eyes towards the clouds,
so I can sit under the same starry sky
and wonder under the blues that
twirl around burning stars.
I do not believe in heaven,
no dreams of golden palaces
floating in the sky,
my paradise is found on the prairie ground,
in the golden grass hair of my Mother Earth.

Jacob Henry Fasthorse-Cordova is a student at Sitting Bull College.