Self Made: A found poem with “Grand-daughters” by Joy Harjo
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-
jaded from bathing in the stars and
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.