there is this edge within me

There is this edge where shadows 

and bones of some of us walk 

backwards. 

Talk backwards. There is this edge. 

Call it an ocean of fear of the dark. Or 

name it with other songs. Under our ribs 

our hearts are bloody stars. Shine on 

shine on, and horses in their galloping flight 

strike the curve of ribs. 

Heartbeat 

and breathe back 

sharply. Breathe 

backwards. 

There is this edge 

within me 

I saw it once 

an August Sunday morning 

when the heat hadn’t 

left this earth. And Goodluck 

sat sleeping next to me in the 

truck. 

We had never broken through 

the edge of the 

singing at four A.M. 

We had only wanted to talk, 

to hear
any other voice to stay alive with— 

And there was this edge

not the drop of sandy rock cliff 

bones of volcanic earth into 

Albuquerque. 

Not that, 

but a string of shadow 

horses kicking 

and pulling me out of my 

belly, 

not into the Rio Grande 

but into the music 

barely coming through 

Sunday church singing 

from the radio. Battery worn-

down but the voices 

talking backwards. 

[Joy Harjo {1951- } 'Call it Fear', from She had Some Horses]