Perhaps there is a rabbi to offer paper
to a burning woman, sentences moving

backwards to jar me into the direction of the sacred.

Perhaps there is a sweat lodge to take in
the hands and mouth I have orphaned—

my soul supine,   feet needing drum and rattle.

But, sky alone provides slow swaddle,
prairie, a pillow of grass as seeds crack their lullaby.

Perhaps here, against ground
in fields where the last bison

was felled, I will rise as if I was the first—

a woman with hooves of fire,
their soot and char for you to follow.