a letter to my senator 

i understand why you think 
of yourself as a god. i have called you
so many times that my tongue absconded
& took a better life as a salamander. 
each time a petition, "would you like
to see me as human? would you like to 
stick your hand in the soil?" when i was
a little dragon i used to pray
for all kinds of things in a church
with confetti windows. i asked that
my family would have more money.
that we would eat the good canned moons.
just like you, either he did not hear me
or could not or did not want to. 
i am not asking you to hear me.
i stopped talking to god & started
talking to the deer. they say, "take what
you can. cross the roads with your
eyes closed." i picture you in rooms
of white. marble tables. i picture you
without any wings. with a mouthful
of sugar, laboring to swallow. no matter
how much you eat, you will never know
fullness like my people do. i wonder
what it would mean to never write
to you again. i stopped talking to god
& he vanished. left a glorious void
where water rushed in. the salmon
& their sacrifices. the tips of spruce trees
taste like lemons. have you ever stopped
in the rain to pluck one? i know 
you have not. just for today i am not asking
for you to see me. i am not speaking
to the paper shredder systems you worship. 
instead, i am plucking a dandelion.
i am basking in what cannot be taken.
my gender, a shovel. my words, spilled
so far & so deep that even the birds repeat them.