by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I keep a rabbit hole
on my kitchen window sill
so I can jump into it
once in a while:
When people become inhuman,
details from the bloody wars…
or when he came into the room;
his white jacket spoke and said
the tests did not look good.
“The Navajo want me
to have two healing ceremonies
with Mr. Redhouse,”
you said.
Underground,
in the cool stillness,
I listen to the raging river
sift through the earth
one drop at a time.
fourwindowspress 