Of late, every night my ancestors speak to me in dreams.
They tell me of the border I must cross.

Do I need to bring my memories?
Wrap up your memories in sweet grass,
Place them in the storehouse made of timber and stone,
So that those who loved you can open them and see you and hear your voice:
Like the time when you molded your first pot
And a god filled your arms and hands with his arms and hands
And guided you, then left you, the ecstasy left you,
Leaving you empty and sad, yet the pot was a joy to behold.

Do I need to learn another language?
          No, they speak Jicarilla Apache  in the same mountains,
But you will rove over the mesas and canyons,
Over the sleeping villages and over the villages in sunlight,
And will speak quietly to women grinding corn
And to men shaping pots and to basket weavers,
Watching over them, warning, holding them back, consoling,
Giving hope, making them laugh, scaring the wicked.

The pots you shape now are covered in spikes
As if you could hide inside and wait out the journey,
But across the border you will light up pots,
They will glow with you inside and people will venerate them,
Will place them in alcoves and watch them glow in the dark.

What will I eat across the border?
You will live on the memories and thoughts of those who knew you or heard stories of you,
Memories stored in the rock of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains,
The way lightning is stored in them
And released in storms, so they journey into minds.
They journey into the mind of a young mother,
Kneeling before the oven whose hot stones bake the torillas,
 She thinks of you and tells her daughter playing by her side
About how you smelled of mesquite smoke
And your hands were rough and strong but made beauty.

Dawn comes and the ancestors depart.
I smell coffee brewing,
The sun fills the dust and stones and timbers with life,
Yet they say the villages on the other side of the pass
Spend their days in mist.

May 21st, 2011