ππππ°
In school I learned to say Koran, like I learned to say Osage.
When I hear Qurβan, I understand I am closer to truth.
When I hear ππππ°, I know I am closer to the mottled eagle
sailing low over the ferry sliding across the slough, closer
to the bowl of nest in a cottonwood, a white-headed parent above.
π looks like a talon, ππππ° the sound of an eagle rising.
I am ππππ° chasing an osprey. ππππ° curled beak tearing fish.
I am salmon in translucent green.
When Bill says, ππ°ΝπΌπ°ππ° πππ· ππΌπΝπππ°? and I understand, a blaze.
In his eighties, Mogri murmurs ππ°ππ°ππ· π»π·,
says youβyou canβt think of it like English. Thereβs
a different concept in Osage. When he says, youβ
you all are doing real good, he holds the broken in me.
Notes:
This poem appeared in print under the title ππππ°. The spelling has been corrected for the online publication at the poetβs request.