The names we create for the people we build
of sticks and mud and snow. The houses we fashion 
for them to live in. The weather they must survive. All of it 
slipping.  The baby we implant in the dirt-womb 
of a stick woman. The fetus slipping. The huts we build 
on riverbeds, the mud pies we force into babies’ mouths.  
The tongue slipping.  Lullabies in which we swaddle them, 
rocking boughs in the wind and the breaking. Breaking. We must 
build a shelter.  Collect scrap and wood, blankets to save the bodies.  
Imagine trees, cut the limbs, rebuild the bridges.  Trust the sun 
to hold us and not shine too keenly. To keep still as we gather 
buckets of water, the surface rippling with heat.  We will feed it 
to the people. We will wash ourselves in light.