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Today I heard a rich and hungry boy verbatim quote all last night’s infomercials — an anorectic son who bought with Daddy’s Amex black card the Bowflex machine and Abdomenizer, plus a steak knife that doth slice the inner skin of   his starving arms. Poor broken child of   Eve myself, to me, the flightless fly, the listing, blistered, scalded. I am the rod to their lightning. Mine is the earhole their stories pierce. At my altar the blouse is torn open and the buttons sailed across the incensed air space of the nave, that I may witness the mastectomy scars crisscrossed like barbed wire, like bandoliers. To me, the mother carries the ash contents of   the long-ago incinerated girl. She begs me for comfort since my own son was worse tortured. Justice, they wail for — mercy? Each prostrate body I hold my arms out for is a cross my son is nailed to.

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

For the graduates of the University of Arizona. This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness: the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land, and all animals and humankind. We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees. We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children, family members, and friends who have traveled with them on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here this morning: we honor their devotion. May we remember that holiness exists in the ordinary elements of our lives. We are grateful for a homeland that has always thrived on a glorious array of people and their diverse cultures, histories, and beliefs. We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses. May we always cherish our ancestors as we prepare for the days ahead. May we remember that we exist because of their prayers and their faith. We are blessed with distinct and melodious tongues. Our languages are treasures of stories, songs, ceremonies, and memories. May each of us remember to share our stories with one another, because it is only through stories that we live full lives. May the words we speak go forth as bright beads of comfort, joy, humor, and inspiration. We have faith that the graduates will inspire others to explore and follow their interests. Today we reflect a rainbow of creation: Some of us came from the east, where bright crystals of creativity reside. They are the white streaks of early morning light when all is born again. We understand that, in Tucson, the Rincon Mountains are our inspiration for beginning each day. The Rincons are everlasting and always present. Those who came from the south embody the strength of the blue mountains that encircle us. The Santa Ritas instill in us the vigorous spirit of youthful learning. Others came from the west; they are imbued with the quiet, yellow glow of dusk. They help us achieve our goals. Here in the middle of the valley, the ts'aa', the basket of life, the Tucson Mountains teach us to value our families. The ones from the north bring the deep, restorative powers of night's darkness; their presence renews us. The Santa Catalina Mountains teach us that, though the past may be fraught with sorrow, it was strengthened by the prayers of our forebearers. We witnessed the recent fires the mountains suffered, and in their recovery we see ourselves on our own journeys. We understand that we are surrounded by mountains, dziił, and thus that we are made of strength, dziił, nihí níhídziił. We are strong ourselves. We are surrounded by mountains that help us negotiate our daily lives. May we always recognize the multitude of gifts that surround us. May our homes, schools, and communities be filled with the wisdom and optimism that reflect a generous spirit. We are grateful for all blessings, seen and unseen. May we fulfill the lives envisioned for us at our birth. May we realize that our actions affect all people and the earth. May we live in the way of beauty and help others in need. May we always remember that we were created as people who believe in one another. We are grateful, Holy Ones, for the graduates, as they will strengthen our future. All is beautiful again. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

To be blessed said the old woman is to live and work so hard God’s love washes right through you like milk through a cow To be blessed said the dark red tulip is to knock their eyes out with the slug of lust implied by your up-ended skirt To be blessed said the dog is to have a pinch of God inside you and all the other dogs can smell it

(at St. Mary's) may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back     may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that

What’s there to say? We didn’t care for him much, and you can’t exactly commiserate with someone you don’t just not love but almost (admit it) hate. So the news just hung over us like the dud summer weather we’d had— rain since June, the lawn sodden, garden a bog, all slugs, late blight so bad our sickened Beefsteak vines, our Sweet One Hundreds, San Marzanos, the lot, yellowed half black before the fruit had set, which, when it did, began to bloat and rot before it ripened—but like I say (and not to speak ill of the dead) we just didn’t care for him, which is probably all there is to be said.

The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks

When I got old enough I asked my mother, to her surprise, to tell me what she did with my eyes. She balked and stalled, sounding unsure for the first time I could remember. It was the tender way she held my face and kissed where tears should have rolled that told me I’d asked of her the almost impossible— to recount my blinding tale, to tell what became of the rest of me. She took me by the hand and led me to a small sapling that stood not much taller than me. I could smell the green marrow of its promise reaching free of the soil like a song from Earth’s royal, dirty mouth. Then Mother told me how she, newly freed, had prayed like a slave through the night when the surgeon took my eyes to save my fevered life, then got off her knees come morning to take the severed parts of me for burial—right there beneath that small tree. They fed the roots, climbed through its leaves to soak in sunlight . . . and so, she told me, I can see. When the wind rustles up and cools me down, when the earth shakes with footsteps and when the sound of birdcalls stirs forests like the black and white bustling ’neath my fingertips I am of the light and shade of my tree. Now, ask me how tall that tree of mine has grown to be after all this time— it touches a place between heaven and here. And I shudder when I hear the earth’s wind in my bones through the bones of that boxed-up swarm of wood, bird and bee: I let it loose . . . and beyond me.

You could drive blind for those two seconds and they would be forever. I think that as a diesel truck passes us eight miles east of Mission. Churning through the storm, heedless of the hill sliding away. There isn’t much use to curse but I do. Words fly away, tumbling invisibly toward the unseen point where the prairie and sky meet. The road is like that in those seconds, nothing but the blind white side of creation. You’re there somewhere, a tiny struggling cell. You just might be significant but you might not be anything. Forever is a space of split time from which to recover after the mass passes. My curse flies out there somewhere, and then I send my prayer into the wake of the diesel truck headed for Sioux Falls one hundred and eighty miles through the storm.

Our loneliness sits with us at dinner, an unwanted guest who never says anything. It’s uncomfortable. Still we get to know each other, like students allowed to use a private research library for only one night. I go through her file of friends, cities and jobs. “What was that like?” I ask. “What did you do then?” We are each doctors who have only ourselves for medicine, and long to prescribe it for what ails the other. She has a nice smile.Maybe, maybe. . . I tell myself. But my heart is a cynical hermit who frowns once, then shuts the door of his room and starts reading a book. All I can do now is want to want her. Our polite conversation coasts like a car running on fumes, and then rolls to a stop; we split the bill, and that third guest at the table goes home with each of us, to talk and talk.