Marchers lay facedown with their hands behind their backs on Portland's Burnside Bridge for 9…
I am going to church at dusk in the aspen grove.
I am going to sit inside of the wind and see the green behind my eyes.
I am going to burn sweetgrass at the bottom of the stairs so that he
can take the first step.
I am going to recall the stillness of the library stacks in college and remember how I called it holy in the middle of the night.
I am going to call Joan into the air around me when I cannot conjure my own strength.
I am going to dream of leaving, of going home, of rising up and then I am going to die alone, singing.
I am going to hear him when he says it again:
Let me hold you.
And then I am going to remind myself to not be afraid.