Orpheus Re-Names The Constellations Poem by Leonard Kress

The sputtering car breaks down. They always do,
though rarely on this red clay desert floor
where coyotes pace the mesas, ready to pursue
a midnight snack. I stay inside and lock the door.

My Navajo driver searches for a tool-
under the great flattened inky dome
of sky that rubs off on my fingertips, so cool
to touch that even all the shooting stars seem

like light, removed from burners, that drains
through a giant colander. He can't repair
the car, sure to be stripped by sunrise

so leads me past his family hut and sheep-pen, far
away, to a sacred hogan which he unchains,
to let me write new myths, to cancel old lies.