The Boy Who Went Looking

I was espiritu santo, piñon fire–those flames.
I ran the raggedy edge of downslope winds,
turned into a marsh hawk over Cuyama.
I was a little girl under Zaca Lake. I was
opaque. Given petals floating on the surface,
I swallowed. I was quartzite, abalone shell.
Every day I searched for my mother.
I was hidden in a white man’s pocket.
At the river, I became a pole bridge,
a rope, I was hand-over-hand. Once
I saw a ball of light moving slowly down
the track. I ran, but could not reach her.
Now, I wait. I wait. When people ask,
I don’t answer. Silence is also speech.