By CooXooEii Black

Home is a sound.
 I can hear it
in the western meadowlark, the inlaid rocks in my driveway,
 in the accent and slang
of my mom’s voice.
 It’s engrained
 in her stretched vowels,
in her smashed-together words, in her
 hard Rs,
and in the word rez.

I grew up hearing this rez accent, but I didn’t know my mom had one
until I spent a year
 in the south, where you can’t escape the heat
                in the shade
 because the humidity still clings to you.

I could smell
a Wyoming lake
 and a budding Russian olive tree in her voice,
 matted river moss melting in my hands.
The mental image I had of my mom had fallen
 out of date.
And all my friends from the rez feel the same way. Sometimes we can still taste
 a Maverick 99-cent refill from the location
that got shut down
 because my late grandpa
kept robbing it, can still taste the water
from our old swimming spot                in the drying river,
 can still taste
milkweed sap.
Like burnt brass from a plug                                           separated from a socket,
sometimes there’s a trace when things           detach.

• Relationships

Poet Bio

CooXooEii Black (he/him) is an Afro-Indigenous member of the Northern Arapaho Tribe from the Wind River Reservation. He earned a BA in English with a focus on creative writing from Colorado College and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Memphis. While at the University of Memphis, he served as senior poetry editor for The Pinch Journal. See More By This Poet

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