I am one indian, seated in my solitary style. Raw-hide perfumes the air as l leaf through the memories I have buried. These memories you have made of me. Glass beads, feathers and tapestries we’ve traded–leaf-wrapped and tied in God’s eye knots, so carefully embedded within the soft mossy crotch of the rarest of evergreens, open-air secrets.
I found the clear-cut of your camp, relocated. You will not be coming back. I think in clear English the words you have formed in me, and these same verbs pick and chisel my inside. The water courses from north to south dispersing pebbles and sounds like thirst.
From so far away, you still animate me.
My brothers and sisters have their faith which keeps them sleeping sound. I have let them. I will fight the fever until our genetics manifest our cure.
My brothers and sisters would never believe in your medicines, not the way we do. Science does not hold a candle to Earth Mother. You come with your knowledge, and heavenly Father. I refrain from my earthly fathers and nocturnal faith, to befriend you.
We never spoke of fire, yet I hold this stainless torch which you’ve traded me for–the tinkling clarity of its unsheathing into the grind of the flint which sparkles into the blue and white prick of our flame.
Where to begin with thee absentee fire of forgiveness. How to cauterize this sickness of rivulets from flood.
