A bad bone doesn’t stalk
when the sun is walking straight on a clear sky
through grandmothers and sisters.
He beats her when
the moon is pulling him up.
In small ways he beats her
when graves are sucking him down,
winds are shoving him around.
He beats her when rains
stomp around, vibrating dirt,
shaking tangles out of tall grass.
Still she stays.
Maybe she knows that
he is between everything substantial.
She knows how old the day can be and
how young he is between hunts.
She can see the stars between bad bones
even when night skies cloud black,
dense as ironwood branches
washed down the arroyo in spring
because she loves him.
orphan poems 