Love Letter to Adalynn’s First Laugh

 I remember singing to you,
your round face, river rock eyes,
and terracotta smile,
all reflect back at me from
the lights of my mother’s fake christmas tree.
You liked it when I sang in Navajo,
yazh, shiyazh, ałwosh,
little one, my little one, sleep,
as everyone
rolled over in bed, and your mother refused to
pick you up while you cried and cried and cried and
me and my younger sisters,  
your teenage aunts,
bent our arms around your raven crow head,  
sturdy with candle warm care,
gentle with blue corn sweetness,
and took turns rocking you to sleep,
yazh, shiyazh, ałwosh, ałwosh
You babble high in the back of your
wet clay neck, a language  
that meets our own  
between bits of firm petal teeth,
white like the edges of rock salt,  
given out to our family by
your small hands and fingers, clutching  
the rim of our grandmother’s
beautiful Navajo basket.
Your sable hair, cowlicked and twisted round  
loved one’s thumbs, sticks  
out of your father’s tattered blanket.
And we whisper heavy lidded lullabies,
yazh, shiyazh, ałwosh, ałwosh, ałwosh.