Itchy dreams are my realms. My healing song
doesn’t heal — but it’ll lure you back alive.

Outside of Pahrump, clad in bra and thong,
you crouched in the scorching dark. There were five

of you at this women’s curing sweat lodge.
A friend’s aunt sang for you. Far off, I sang,

too. We forget. The soul is a hodgepodge
of scars. The soul grows in pain: first she bang,

then she change. Only hate and sloth blaspheme.
They sang. I sang, too: in black heat come back.

You’re loved by your sisters, the gods, this earth.
Come back home heavy with your itchy dream

filled with heat. Off in the scrub and sumac
dead things stirred as all your old lusts gave birth.