To Joy Harjo on the Radio from New Mexico:
The moment I first loved poetry
I heard your voice as if from a great distance—
a raven flapping its wide black wings far above the desert
and speaking in tongues. The road curved north,
then straight, my thirst so large, the night so dark,
your words guiding me west along the dry river bed
snaking through town that craves the monsoon rain
to fill its throat.
I found you in the ripples of pages on a bookstore shelf,
submerged my parched heart in your poems and drank.
As if a horse who’d galloped a thousand miles
to save its rider from danger.