Sorrow never sits, no matter how many seats you give it.

A poem.

I’ve been knocking on the door of this language,
kneeling and serving it fried dough, 
sweet tea, time. It tells me

kubona is to find
kubonabona is to find and find and find, 

which is to suffer. To turn every corner 
and meet your sorrow on its dusty feet.
It never sits, no matter how many seats you pull out.

The hut of language is cool and dark. 
O…