In a Pueblo Indian Dwelling, Four-Corners

            Beside 
shards of earthen jars and bowls, 
the Kachina-Child returns 
in the desert’s smoldering gaze. He enters 
from the bent reeds, beyond nothing and earth. 
He wears his mask and his memory. 

            On the plain, 
his steps falter across 
the shadows combed into crooked cracks of the clay.
            In the kiva, 
he touches charred wood and ashes as 
the shadows flicker behind him. 

            Tonight he 
raises his arms above his head and wakes to visions.
As they shatter, he takes each piece out of himself 
and plants it beside the cracked blue corn. 

            If you see him, 
lower your eyes. His gaze is a harsh smoke, 
the piercing of yucca, whose splintering fibers prick
as he stares into you and walks inside. Closely he watches,
but if you fear fire, he’ll step back to the shadows, 
the shards cutting deep.