. . . . . . . . . .an elegy
Demark colored lines fluid as the Red sea
and place names for distance.. . . . . . . . . .Cherokee––
We are a region
where herds wait, swallowing grass like fire. . . . . . . . . .Seminole––
and drink the stream till sandy loam cracks
and a Burren juts out like a dying stomach.. . . . . . . . . .Chickasaw––
Patches of daisies in crevices of erosion,
a smooth blue hue to calm desolation.. . . . . . . . . .Crow––
No food, no safety, no, nothing, let the mouth circle o
and we marched west when pushed.. . . . . . . . . .Muscogee––
Skin’s lines as air since birth, then we became
something else, named waves against the shore.. . . . . . . . . .Choctaw––
Divisions strict as rocks building fences, building Babel,
and a Burren juts out as a dying stomach. . . . . . . . . .Blackfoot––
that rumbles for what was, the moon-root
sucking in air and sporadic rain,. . . . . . . . . .Ojibwa––
a constant hunger. Our tears become the sea
and we are thought to be obsolete,. . . . . . . . . .we will not be barren land.
Part of The Learned Pig’s Wolf Crossing editorial season, spring/summer 2017.
Image credit: Squid Ink, via Flickr