Kayenta

Summers we paint relocation houses 
on the res, beige and grey, 
“Navajo white/’ our brushes dripping
Dutch Boy on red Arizona earth. 

You sit in your hogans, grandparents,
save your smiles for your children, 
nieces, nephews, your own. 

We cover sheetrock squares, stain 
and varnish doors with thick, 
choking strokes. Your hogans 
are round, bound with living sticks, 
hand-dyed rugs on hard clay floors, 
the spirit-door wide open. 

When we leave, you turn your goats 
into the government houses. 

You have no future 
tense and I, at seventeen, 
have no idea why you laugh 
to see the goats lick lacquer from the doors,
shit on untouched carpet, 

as we haul our paint away.