Kachinas come in slumber,
her black molasses eyes beneath lids
but kachinas come and dance,
shake her with nocturnal solutions
to the day’s murals in motion.
She rises to greet them in their
silent feather dress, their
masks alive with shifting paint.
Moving the mirror overhead,
she enters the turquoise of her need.
At dawn break the kachinas
go back to their world
and the mirror with the image of her eyes
has the new significance
of a novel written while entranced,
an ochre moon at twilight.