by Cheyenne Dakota Williams
There is a house along the river that
no one can notice. Acres of land,
we drive to your estate that’s secondhand
and stilted above the shore. You entrapped
me with promises of the Tunica intact,
but this French surname I don’t understand.
I pluck and crush magnolias with my hands
to ignore the moss that my hair amassed.
I walk to the river each night in search
of the scutes submerged in their nocturnal.
You hear my splashes as I wade heap deeper,
pulling me out from my propensive lurch
as you slap me out of my infernal
subconscious. I awake where no one hears.
Cheyenne Dakota Williams is a Diné poet originally from Virginia. Her work has been featured in Poetry Magazine, Chapter House Journal, and Saw Palm: Florida Literature & Art. She is an AWP Tribal Colleges & Universities Fellow, a Tin House scholar, and winner of the Frederick Bock Prize.