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Photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash

My life is about making changes.
The darkness has come
With a flashlight inside my eyes
The reflection when I look in the mirror
A car with one headlight out
The adjacent light is broken

I cannot see the rays
moving into the body
absorbing all the stench of the world
asparagus and pee
not too yellow but too caring
for the capitalists to notice and care

But when I lived in New York City
I lived
too much
To open my legs to any man interested in me

A brown body in a world that values
the white ripped body more
But my dense body carries
all the stories of my ancestors
without my consent

To know I am not a voice of the unsullied ancients
who lived in mud houses
built with juniper trees
or evergreen ponderosas
logs taken from the boundaries of the reservation

Photo by Ashton Bingham on Unsplash

The second time I went on a date with a man
We had sex with the lights out
Or was that only in my dream
And I told my friends
That I had to be somewhere
while we were at a party

But to be desired by a DILF with six-pack abs
and an eight inch cock
Is this what it means to be a country-side gay?

To know I am not here
Or there when I need to be
I can make the dark room
come alive with my eyes closed

Let me hear the sound of the dry concrete
To see dark alleys with homeless men
dressed in sweaters and ripped 501s
stolen from the Macy’s on 34th street

But to see a film on the bus crossing Central Park West
The divide between the
sacred and un-profane division of nature
The apartments line the street
while trees’ roots break the concrete

I can hear the voices of the sky people
run down my our ears
the hearts of the loin-clothed ancestors
Why are you here?

I want to be here.
I need to be here.
I was born here.

And they look at me in the eyes
the boy with a shaved head
Their warrior faces and almond eyes
reach into their corn pollen bags
What have we done?

Photo by Jes Cleland on Unsplash

The fault is no ones’
It was meant to happen.
I am not a Two-Spirit
I wonder and murmur of the sanctity
we find in life

When I’m buried in the sand
or burned to be placed in a wooden box
My spirit will look down from the skies
And I’ll see other young Navajos like me
To not look with disappoint in their eyes
They are not lost

If I were to become God
Holy ones will not be pleased
The jealousy, envy, sadness
has not left
I float on
To begin again

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