after Eileen Myles, while visiting the National Museum of the American Indian
You flowered
like a salmon
moves against
sharp bone
like a beaded
ribbon swings
I called you
loon because
you knew
approaching
storms
I called you
washing, the wood
asleep like
a bowl
Inside
your spine straight,
cheek against
buffalo teeth
Burbling,
you swallowed
sweet camas bulb
in the shape
of your lung
And
lifting
this cloth
against
the mountains
bright under
the light
like a
wail