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.