The night I return from Shiprock

I dream I am an Iraqi prisoner.

 

Restrained face down in cuffs

I feel an alcohol swab

against the back of my neck.

A minor procedure is coming.

An injection?

Something worse?

 

When I told you I did

some bad things

in the name of my country,

I hope you were listening.

 

When I told you that some of us

never make it back,

I hope you were listening.

 

When I told you to love one another

and love the Earth

and love your families

and honor your heart,

I hope you were listening.

 

Because many of us who have these dreams

do not speak of them

the way I am speaking to you.

 

Many of us guard our dreams

so we not be judged or pitied

for the wells of darkness

into which we clambered

in the name of freedom.