Relocation

My grandma called her

Our little Indian 

with a smile that always bothered me,

like she was a doll to collect and display.

Once, at church, President Kimball

called her a 

Lamanite 

declared her cursed skin would whiten, 

until she was delightsome—

As if God would cast a pillar 

of light across their adopted 

daughter’s face, or cover her Navajo

history in a sacrament cloth.

Now, when I look in the mirror

and call myself

Mormon

my grandma bristles in my mind,

That's not our name, she scolds,

listen to the Prophet.

Suddenly, names matter—

dropping like hailstones from on high,

pelting a girl as she holds her breath

in the baptismal font. Eyes open,

and stinging.