I dreamed I was Thomas
No snow, no fire, no ice,
only old man Thomas, sitting in smoke
weaving black mukluks from raven feathers
singing the song of his own death.
I couldn’t remember the melody or the story
when I woke up, only the salt taste of
Chukchi Sea, Kuskokwim River, Dead Man’s Creek.
I never met Thomas, but something about the song
I couldn’t remember made me want to see
how long I could cry.
I once cried an entire summer
but summer is short here.