Sacred Storm

I can hear her singing in the wind
as it blows, rattling loud and deep.
She said she saw the weight of the sky
suffocate generations who
never quit this place.  She said
she saw them stewed in sticks and fat and bones
mixed with the warm piss the red-purple of sliced beets.
Their winter nights burned with fires wasting
splintered floor boards pried
out of the bowels of old barns.

She said you can see how the weight
smothers pine trees and wheat
and the fat hooked worm swimming
in cold blood wanting to be loved too.
She said the fish loves the worm only at first,
hates the worm when he takes the hook.

She tells me about her dream of riding a horse
bareback up stream.  A dappled brown
breaking sun and splitting waves.
The mane of the horse
yearns like the slant of rain
and its neck leans into the curl of rock
as its gallop makes a rush of wind,
a hard bent blast.
She beckons, holds on, listens,
returns to that dream.
She remembers/forgets her own body.

I hear her singing to the crackling sky.
When I turn I see the lid sucked right off this place
and I see her run to the strike of light.
I see the worm move in a translucent flash,
then crawl in the strobing dragging the hook,
again slowly out of her opened chest
and I see her float again and again
out of the hearts of the worm.

Please note:  this poem is aligned left, integral to its form. Thank you.