Green Linden Press

Long-distance Traveling

killing a tick for the sake of a disease 
can be more interesting than a virus 
resembling an imminent threat
or having a reason to drink 
water from a rushing stream. 
I am less fearful of dysentery

breezes settling upon spruce and aspen
wading through dead trees hindering 
the way and swaying in a shift 
of constant flowing water
—fading

hollow logs                 dense trails     
falling leaves               sifting sun

sun veils the passing clouds slicking the consistence 
of water slipping from my hands full of sand 
and comparing the slide to my life 
the particles filter away and always drifting 
behind

my fingers swell like satin, unable to sustain a form 
misting upon my breath
I am losing myself again
vigorous as the inertia in my drive 
keeping me from moving forward  
traveling south in the absence of affirmation

many silhouettes wonder beyond my view 
and I continue to be unaware of the tribulation 
in the leaning crest of each mountain 
wishing to become those jutting peaks
overlooking 

each ravine is a row of land furrows 
or the aligning fibers of my epidural 
moments of indiscrete poise

as malignant, this adoration consumes 
the further I drive the fermenting excitement 
that seems to dissipate inside the years 
of losing you.

the distant scenery holds a distraction, 
scattering the night with insects 
that scintillate inside the indifference 
of space and intertwining light 

the anticipation beckons and is more dangerous 
now than the last night

windshield wipers flick back and forth 
saturating my eyes with every drop 
pounding the windshield and distressing 
the drive that impales my insignificant skin 
suggesting a supple act 
prevailing a blind man 
against the blast of rain
dissolving his structure

in the haze, recalling a dragonfly resonating 
on a granite slab and splashing water from its wings 
hisses through the pilfering dust of Ponderosa pines
junipers, and aspens

the repetitious flutter impact and erases 
the wet congestion of spaces

driving faster and dangerously contesting 
the dazzling drizzle of questions 
of an empty bed when I arrive seeking your company
but always a bit too late
with a natural caress of the pounding membranes 
in my chest, it diminishes the salt
collapsing my cold vessel
and not recovering there

remaining in a bath of solitary vacancy, submerging. 
remaining under the influence of writing verses for you

sensing an aqueous presence but with each glance, 
there is absence 
years pass and I can still smell you on my skin 
but the scent is growing faint and lost

a ghost flower grows on my follicle edges
an apparition of skin projects a two-step cavorts 
behind the wisp of a name that remains 
a stain upon my muttering refrain

thunder clouds            sage brushes
wild horses                              accumulate

the clouds passing and revealing a time
where we both sat on the edge of a tattered bed 
these memories are an elusive ray of the sun 
trying to reach my heedless face

One day I will not go through small towns 
One day I will not be that contemptuous 
One day I will not be trapped in muddy embankments 
or meander the low-hanging telephone wires

seventy miles an hour                         abruptly stopping 
Plymouth Omni in a ditch                  engine droning

the wind releasing a soft draft one evening 
in Vaughn, New Mexico 
believing a myth can mimic a moment 
a horse was hit and killed moments before
remains a burdening shroud of any disease 
and apart from death 
I unknowingly may be killing those nearest to me

Elements

fire snaps, flames rush 
as swirling features, lighting their faces 
and capturing their movement. 
Sparks fly into the wielding darkness, 
combining with stars and the night sky, 
as it was since the beginning

blending with the spread of brilliant specks 
the sparks spin with dark liberty,  
then fly with the embrace of our people, 
where they, wait for the arrival 
—‘iłk’idánde, the beginning

the drum is the pulse 
inside the veins and feet 
the song is the breath
inside the mouth 
the blood is deliverance
inside the prayers 

it is the heartbeat. 
it is the song. 
it is the prayers 
it is the sparks 
gliding into the face of that scattering brilliance

standing inside memory, 
through the eyes of mothers, 
whose same eyes signal their emergence
from each preceding world

the dancers dance with demonstrations 
toward spirits and face the loss inside 
the recognizable features of landscape and skin 
piercing the hollow spaces,
piercing the hollow stares
de tááł             dancing 
haadúú’ą         singing
‘itedadli           praying 
—until sunrise

in a slow-motion sway 
following one another in a succinct 
motion blur holding a place at the drum 
securing a location to fire and sky

white is the sacred color of breath
yellow is the birth of the eastern light 
blue is the stone sacred as water
green is the skin for sheltering the lives
black is the unavoidable end and the beginning 
—sunrise

chish diłtłi                               standing with the smell of cinder 
ku hutas                                   running with ghosts of fire
shi haadúú’ą gúnyuł                singing with gusts of air
shi ‘ik ł’idá beedaajindánde    glaring with the eye sights
ha’úú’ą neełdą guuk’as           waiting for the sun after a cold night 

the rays penetrate and embrace the instance 
where voices feel the shaking skin. 
the day begins with a song 
another instance to feel each step beneath 
the feet and recognize the dance

a rhythm fuses the fibers of history to culture
bounding each step to deviating acts of violence 
dancing against a forbidden possibility 
of existence                 —of prejudice 
of inevitable invasiveness 
—of dance 

the movements are unending, 
defining the back-and-forth voyage 
through the night air

the blare of the straining night 
beside the sacred mountains 
though strands of vast cricket songs
singing along like wisps of wind
twirling off into the stars and rejoining the constellations 
continuing the flight of sparks to a place in perpetuity

Crisosto Apache is originally from Mescalero, New Mexico, on the Mescalero Apache Reservation, and currently lives in the Denver area with their spouse. They are Mescalero Apache, Chiricahua Apache, and Diné (Navajo) of the Salt Clan born for the Towering House Clan. They hold an MFA from the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and are an Assistant Professor of English. Crisosto’s debut collection is GENESIS (Lost Alphabet). Their second collection is Ghostword (Gnashing Teeth Publications). They are Associate Editor of The Offing Magazine, and their profile can be seen on the Poetry Foundation's website.

ISSN 2472-338X
© 2022