maybe it doesn't make sense
by t. zoEy benally

i wipe fine cemetary dust off my work shoes
and it all makes sense, ummm--well it sorta makes sense
okay--it doesn't make a damn bit of sense

he was like a cloud, normally gentle, but prone to outbursts
he was an expressive, articulate, and he loved quality
sometimes extravegant, sometimes lavish
but always just a little bit of opulence
sadly, he is another wanderer i will not bump into again

and i kinda think maybe i know why he did what he did
i think it was because he could not escape the fine
cemetery dirt that supported the aluminum frames, planks
covered with olefin grass carpet, smack dab between
yellow and blue on the color spectrum, dirt imbedded in seams

could not escape the grim foundations that support
all the luxuriant and sumptuous things in this world
could not forget the drilled earth, dug mines, and tailings
could not erase the fact that our sovereign nation
is held in trust and we don't even own air space above it
okay--maybe it was just because of love?

the last time i saw him we were shopping in Hobby Lobby
and i recall his voice, and the solar timbre
as he told me how excited he was to work at the college
i remember his squinty smile and the way his bangs
licked ebony across his forhead, he was decked out,
large turquoise chunks strung audaciously

the time before that i don't remember the location
but i remember he talked about working on computers
for a hospital, but he never told me he had been
to Italy, never told me he had seen operas
also never told me his email address

but the time before that i had him all to myself
my grandson, Naneesht'ezhi Tachiinii link
on a bus from Buffalo--NY to Niagra Falls
he made me laugh until i got the chills
singing a Navajo song about a little dog

he remembered the pin i wore with my velvet shirt
Navajo woman profiled, silver etched with turquoise earring
he said he remembered it from junior high band
when we marched in velveteen shirts and white pants
he played second clarinet

and i remembered how impressed i always was
that he could speak both Navajo and English
so eloquently, and secretly wished he would teach me
because no one else called me Masaan, and now i wish
i could also remember English words only he would use

but it sorta makes sense, maybe makes sense
okay--it totally doesn't make any sense at all
that it would be powdery yellow dust
not completely wiped off shoes in the end.