Song from a Reedless Flute

You are beadwork woven by a broken Indian woman That I mend with cautious, needle-pricked fingers. You are raw sweetness of burning chaga Scraping my lungs and startling tears. You are the bear claw necklace No longer caressing The space between my breasts. You are cigarettes That I quit years ago, But sometimes smoke anyways. You are maple syrup on snow Melting on my tongue Until I ache from the cold. You are the cedar tree Sheltering my childhood From unwanted caresses. You are the star blanket Sliding off the bed on autumnal nights. You are a stubborn braid of wiingashk That must be relit with a dozen matches Before it releases thin streamers of sweetness. You are the love song Played on a reedless flute That only spirits hear.