Self Made: A found poem with “Grand-daughters” by Joy Harjo

Kyla Hill

I weaved violet, many vines, a dreamer’s blush,  

their resplendent fog 

when hung, a lighthouse in bittercrisp July.  

I steered a heart of nightingales from sun- 

burnt sands  

jaded from bathing in the stars and  

heavily undone 

by their threads. I filled myself of lavender drawn 

memories in caves not meant for me.  

At dawn, while shadows drowned, 

I carved my personhood. 

Fall 2021