On Antelope Mesa

As we approached the vacant mission stranded
in the desert, I wondered what the Pueblo thought
when those men from across the shore pursued.

How did their hands decide to pick up rocks
instead of bowls? They fell apart
after their world was broken again and again.

Stepping slowly inside, we couldn’t see.
The spark of our lanterns ignited the clamor
of angry wings that made the rafters groan.

But the ghosts of holy hunters chanted
in the closets and cupboards, drifted through
the window holes, dragging Hopi souls.