I Looked to My People, and My People Said Nothing

I carried it around inside a medicine pouch,
the secret I made from mud
and dried daylight.

The straps were so tight
it made my hips hurt.
I was afraid to lose it

in the swaying brush
or the high surf advisory,
the people they warn you about

with signs on the bus.
I’ve lost a decade of sleep
looking for signs.

My daughter lost
four teeth in a week.
I looked to my people

and my people said nothing.
The curse
kept me

at double-arm intervals.
The old dirt.
The bad sky

under which I was born
misshapen and early
not unwanted but not welcomed

either.
The night I was born
a crow posted sentinel

on the windowsill
and gave me a name
in its language.

Ryan Mattern holds an MA in English from UC Davis and a BA in Creative Writing from CSUSB. He is the recipient of the Felix Valdez Award. His work has appeared in Crazyhorse, The Santa Clara Review, and Poetry Quarterly. He currently serves in the US Army.