A story matrix connects all of us. There are rules, processes, and circles of responsibility in this world. And the story begins exactly where it is … - Joy Harjo

There is a field
of talking blood
that I have not been able
to reach,
not even with knives,
not yet.

Alive. This music rocks
me. I drive the interstate,
watch faces come and go on either
side. I am free to be sung to;
I am free to sing. This woman
can cross any line.

This is my soul. It is a good soul. It tells me, “Come here, forgetful one.” And we sit together. We cook a little something to eat, then a sip of something sweet, for memory, for memory. This is my song. It is a good song. It walked forever the border of fire and water, climbed ribs of desire to sing to you. Its new wings quiver with vulnerability. Come lie next to me. Put your head here. My heart is close enough to sing.