I don’t know if it’s one or two shamans,
dream and sleep, holding that silver needle
and golden thread that closes wounds
to the heart and soul and mind with that
cross-stitch that leaves a thin golden line
that says, “In remembrance. . .” and my thumb
rubs over the scar holding time and experience,
some type of wisdom as the shamans
sing what Crazy Jane said to the bishop,
“For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.” and I start to sing along.
-Byron Hoot
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