tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49101691195908581312024-02-07T00:31:20.623-08:00Red WillowA Book of PoetryDr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-41526738530836669542018-11-25T16:25:00.000-08:002018-11-25T16:25:01.212-08:0027. Hit and RunMama I hit that man<br />
Stepping out of his truck<br />
I hit that man<br />
<br />
Down where the road curves west<br />
And the trees shine gold<br />
His legs smashed<br />
Against my hard bumper<br />
Windshield shattered<br />
His body clamoured<br />
<br />
Mama I hit that man<br />
The trees bleed rust now<br />
And my mind will never be the same<br />
<br />
Mama, I hit that man<br />
Laying in my bed<br />
I hit that man<br />
<br />
Laughing at my anger<br />
Knowing I’m a fool<br />
I grabbed the pillow<br />
Forced it down upon him<br />
Arms flailed<br />
And I jerked myself away<br />
<br />
Mama I hit that man<br />
The blankets bleed rust now<br />
And my mind will never be the same<br />
<br />
<i>(10/2017)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-70299501008964494382018-11-22T16:55:00.000-08:002018-11-22T16:55:15.303-08:00Shunkaha Napin“I never want to leave this country; all my relatives are lying in the ground.” - Shunkaha Napin
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-40503552709700073842018-11-18T16:53:00.000-08:002018-11-18T16:53:02.537-08:0026. I, Rebel / I RebelStop messing with my future<br />
I rebel<br />
Stop telling me what to do<br />
I rebel<br />
Stop tampering with my paperwork<br />
I rebel<br />
Stop.<br />
<br />
Stop calling me a cunt, a prostitute<br />
I rebel<br />
Stop forcing me into your box<br />
I rebel<br />
Stop talking to me condescendingly<br />
I rebel<br />
Stop.<br />
<br />
Stop bugging me<br />
Stop asking me to do shit for free<br />
Stop asking me to pay to be your token Indian<br />
Stop.<br />
<br />
Leave me alone<br />
You’re a woman in my grad school cohort, why are you trying to drag me down?<br />
Leave me alone<br />
You’re a man I briefly met at a bar, why are you talking to me this way?<br />
Leave me alone<br />
You’re a non-profit getting bank, why do you think you can capitalize off of my story, my identity, my intellectual content?<br />
Leave me alone<br />
<br />
I, rebel<br />
Will hold steadfast and rise up<br />
I, rebel<br />
Will resist the established patriarchy<br />
I, rebel<br />
Will subvert and uphold the laws of rebellion<br />
<br />
The more you force<br />
The more I rebel<br />
The more I become a rebel<br />
You’d be better off<br />
If you’d just leave me alone<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-84402606467390915542018-11-15T16:33:00.000-08:002018-11-15T16:33:00.848-08:00Plenty Coups“The ground on which we stand is sacred, it is the blood of our ancestors.” - Plenty Coups
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-53580946336779202962018-11-11T16:23:00.000-08:002018-11-11T16:23:01.388-08:0025. MishigamaaI’ve seen him before<br />
He wears green<br />
Rich green<br />
He is my gate keeper<br />
Allowing me close enough to touch<br />
the Wealth<br />
Of lands. Of waters<br />
But never allowing me to linger long.<br />
<br />
He checks on me<br />
Polite smiles exchanged<br />
I’ve seen him before<br />
His cane, a status symbol<br />
He always wears green<br />
Emblazoned with the name of some<br />
Indigenous place<br />
Indigenous words<br />
Indie genius Ivy League schools.<br />
<br />
How beautiful<br />
How mysterious<br />
How powerful<br />
The wind whirls<br />
The water creeps up<br />
Swallowing the beaches<br />
And threatening their white glass cabins.<br />
<br />
Prayers to the water beings<br />
Prayers to the water beings<br />
Heal my mom<br />
Protect my sister<br />
Comfort my aunt<br />
Birth my daughter.<br />
<br />
My education got me here<br />
My culture got me here<br />
My family got me here<br />
My connection to my lands got me here.<br />
<br />
There’s something dangerous about me<br />
I can see it in his stance<br />
I can feel it when we pass<br />
I’m just discovering my power.<br />
<br />
<i>(10/2017)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-6585441393047753782018-11-06T16:25:00.000-08:002018-11-06T16:25:02.546-08:00Red Cloud“We do not want riches. We want peace and love.” - Red CloudDr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-32880923980617637032018-11-05T16:51:00.000-08:002018-11-05T16:51:00.241-08:00March<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8313TYx0di6BR_L3Aqk_04UwMgH2yaDKd-VFB-uWEboheQvK5Z1IRoylcucRoMRcsrPPGjtcAtJKuFSj0lrJJKnZPeaoCbEYb5SsKIIKCH5w12foCeoVonXT_UkmFl2waGh3E7o-99FP/s1600/March+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8313TYx0di6BR_L3Aqk_04UwMgH2yaDKd-VFB-uWEboheQvK5Z1IRoylcucRoMRcsrPPGjtcAtJKuFSj0lrJJKnZPeaoCbEYb5SsKIIKCH5w12foCeoVonXT_UkmFl2waGh3E7o-99FP/s400/March+-+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March, 2017, photo collage</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-70447391279626336502018-11-04T16:40:00.000-08:002018-11-04T16:40:11.447-08:0024. That First Tuesday in November We all have a place in this society.<br />
<br />
And by “this society”<br />
I mean<br />
<br />
This community<br />
Multiple communities<br />
This nation<br />
Multiple nations<br />
<br />
We occupy many spaces<br />
And transcend time<br />
People don’t understand<br />
And that is ok<br />
<br />
Our beautiful great grandparents<br />
Fought for our right to vote<br />
In both Tribal and US elections<br />
And for that we are blessed!<br />
<br />
They fought for us, without even <br />
meeting us or knowing us<br />
They just knew<br />
And their hearts grew<br />
And their minds blew<br />
Open the ideas<br />
That<br />
Women should vote<br />
Indians should vote<br />
<br />
Say what!?<br />
Yes, Indians should vote<br />
And women should vote<br />
<br />
It’s been<br />
Less than 100 years<br />
Since this gift, reserved for white male “citizens” - whatever that means to the all white male majority - was gifted to us<br />
And yes I say gifted<br />
Because a gift can be taken away<br />
By an asshole<br />
Threatened<br />
<br />
So, use it<br />
This gift<br />
Abuse it<br />
<br />
Vote like it’s your last chance!<br />
Your last chance at pleasing your kookum<br />
Your last chance at eating the best fry bread ever<br />
Your last chance at snagging your lifelong crush<br />
Your last chance at taking down that fucking bully.<br />
<br />
It was<br />
Our NDN grandpas during World War I<br />
Our white grammas during women’s suffrage<br />
Our Tribal Nations and our White House nation<br />
That made that first Tuesday in November “a thing”<br />
<br />
And let’s make it a thing!<br />
<br />
We fought for the right to vote<br />
In 1920<br />
We fought for the right to vote<br />
In 1924<br />
We continue to fight for the right to vote<br />
In 2018.<br />
<br />
Miigwetch to our warriors.<br />
Miigwetch to our fire keepers.<br />
Miigwetch to our teachers.<br />
Miigwetch to our medicine People.<br />
Miigwetch to our voters.<br />
<br />
You keep us in line.<br />
So do your duty, and keep our multiple Nations in line.Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-71348651475247726642018-11-03T16:13:00.000-07:002018-11-03T16:13:02.163-07:00Chief Seattle“All things are bound together. All things connect.” - Chief SeattleDr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-65045838098395451752018-11-02T16:47:00.000-07:002018-11-02T16:47:11.010-07:00Sunset Dance<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGZIUwBec0da6vKsyTKBD3gWtQznK-oCbYGKJ6s6kQB4TSjWreNNlEm0KXCbiOpi9iWYWUl4Qnt1D4TccRbSH5XnrjUp0QQp5e2sNV-V5QsBX1Ll6cY0ryooBUMCLpy8Fn_TYIhIHv9Tk/s1600/Sunset+Dance+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1256" data-original-width="1256" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGZIUwBec0da6vKsyTKBD3gWtQznK-oCbYGKJ6s6kQB4TSjWreNNlEm0KXCbiOpi9iWYWUl4Qnt1D4TccRbSH5XnrjUp0QQp5e2sNV-V5QsBX1Ll6cY0ryooBUMCLpy8Fn_TYIhIHv9Tk/s400/Sunset+Dance+-+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset Dance, 2017, photo collage</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-39147977287469682602018-11-01T16:31:00.002-07:002018-11-01T16:32:20.279-07:00About "This Crow"Recently, for awhile there, I kept seeing This Crow - huge, formidable, definitely making his/her presence known. It was almost like the spirit world was yelling at me - trying to tell me something. But it's just.. in another language. A language I was never taught, or a language I forgot, or a language that I only know a few words - you know? What was This Crow telling me?
I hope to one day be fluent in his language.Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-20565770938132231922018-11-01T16:19:00.001-07:002018-11-01T16:21:43.812-07:0023. This CrowThis crow, this crow is preying on me.<br />
Face to face,<br />
his wings slowing spread wide,<br />
consuming my line of vision<br />
with black.<br />
<br />
<i>(2018)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-64890539728481135822018-11-01T16:12:00.002-07:002018-11-01T16:12:31.371-07:00Black Elk“Sometimes dreams are wiser than waking.” - Black Elk
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-52310276652518211102018-11-01T16:09:00.000-07:002018-11-01T16:09:11.049-07:00Gashkadino<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FUFq0CanbuJCMYzAsE3DE3vTyWNiaWLQGlsak6tnrjYYvnk9QVXsdw-d4rn_15qJs2B-BGD8hqzewmHeglvj2ayUMLQ1Idap3aZxhT6y77sc7K5yvpHu84HD9N72Genq-n1nen_30HHg/s1600/Freeze+UP+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FUFq0CanbuJCMYzAsE3DE3vTyWNiaWLQGlsak6tnrjYYvnk9QVXsdw-d4rn_15qJs2B-BGD8hqzewmHeglvj2ayUMLQ1Idap3aZxhT6y77sc7K5yvpHu84HD9N72Genq-n1nen_30HHg/s400/Freeze+UP+-+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gashkadino, 2014, collage photograph</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-60910411002620765112014-05-25T11:40:00.000-07:002014-05-25T11:40:00.237-07:0022. The HeistParking lot window<br>
It's time for the heist<br>
Your hat<br>
It's on<br>
Woven ultra tight.<br><br>
Dark pavement roads<br>
I see the lightening coming in<br>
Meteor showers<br>
We will miss<br>
During my night of heist.<br><br>
Raucous Bon fire<br>
Distance calls<br>
I will miss you<br>
Dear fire<br>
On this night I heist.Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-31041106227644556182014-03-09T09:00:00.000-07:002014-03-09T09:00:00.082-07:0021. LentFlakes of pink leathery birch <br>
twirl in soft gusts. Warm wind <br>
over melting snow polishes icy <br>
water to a glaring tint.<br><br>
At dusk Rugaroo walks the length of the roof, <br>
leaps down, runs through thick brush.<br>
Past the lake, still glass reflecting <br>
spring’s purple nightfall.<br><br>
Trees scratch the pregnant moon<br>
hanging low,<br>
illuminating just enough<br>
to entice everyone - <br>
come out.<br><br>
A crossroads bartender <br>
opens the liquor-splattered door. <br>
Rank souls and foul spirits spill out,<br>
roll across the field, <br>
and rush raw into Rugaroo’s nostrils. <br>
His eyes shine in the moonlight.<br><br>
Quick steps leave soft prints<br>
as his hooves tap the crisp top layer <br>
of the refreezing snow.<br>
Drunken blither gargles <br>
jukebox Hank and Waylon.<br>
Played-out, routine, it masks<br>
the hoof steps approaching.<br><br>
Worn linoleum floors can’t warn, <br>
but a small stash of sweetgrass <br>
deters vicious essence tendencies.<br><br>
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-33260814080597674792014-03-02T21:14:00.000-08:002014-04-01T21:14:47.181-07:0020. Boy What Have You DoneHow can I relay this feeling to you?<br />
How can I share this important moment with you?<br />
I want to <br />
I need to <br />
So I don’t feel alone<br />
<br />
See, I was alone<br />
In California<br />
In the mountains<br />
In a tiny town called Idyllwild<br />
It was hot – a heat wave<br />
Firefighters on alert<br />
But I was there for a fashion show<br />
For what I do<br>
A person, an institution<br>
Investing in me<br>
Believing in me<br>
And my ability to put together a half-ass<br>
Nice ass event<br><br>
I could do it.<br><br>
I did it.<br><br>
But not without hard work<br><br>
I sat<br>
In my huge California mountain cabin<br>
Deluxe<br>
Beds all over the place<br>
But just me<br>
And the insects that fly<br>
Around the lights<br>
Outside<br>
Inside<br>
Against the screens <br>
Trying to get inside<br>
And I sat<br>
At the kitchen table<br>
Obsessing over<br>
The sound<br>
The images<br>
The designers<br>
The time<br>
The looks<br>
The sound<br><br>
The sounds<br>
I became obsessed with the sounds<br>
Of Cris Derksen<br>
That cello<br><br>
Another glass of wine<br>
The rhythm is hypnotic<br>
And I sit<br><br>
Thinking of you and wishing you were here.<br>
One call<br>
Two calls<br>
No answer<br>
You’re away.<br><br>
Away, away, you were always away.<br>
Away, away, I didn’t know you were away<br>
With other girls<br>
Loving other girls.<br><br>
Spending holidays with things on the side.<br>
‘things’ – these ‘things,’ I hate these ‘things’<br>
Why did you drag these ‘things’ into my life?<br><br>
That cello, that cello, that beautiful cello<br>
It continues to play<br>
To remind me of my accomplishments<br>
To remind me of my shortcomings<br>
To remind me of being in California while you were fucking someone in Sitka<br>
To remind me to hate women who dress as Superwoman for Halloween<br>
To remind me of all the ones you chose over me<br>
To remind me of falling apart<br><br>
To remind me of the beauty in insanity<br>
In harsh places<br>
Like the Dakotas<br>
The Turtle Mountains<br>
Where I find my healing<br>
Lose my medicine<br>
Alone, alone<br>
I’m always alone.<br>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-16456479051747302122014-02-23T22:57:00.000-08:002014-03-06T16:29:02.920-08:0019. FuseI blew the fuse again last night.<br />
The one that makes the washer spin,<br />
the fridge cool, <br />
the space heater heat.<br />
<br />
In the dead of winter <br />
the plastic on the windows shiver,<br />
the walls grow frost, <br />
and the propane burns quicker.<br />
<br />
Blown fuses, dead coffee makers, worn out shoes<br />
threaten to take over my basement.<br />
I hate it down there like I hate my bedroom,<br />
my laundry room.<br />
<br />
These cold dark spaces need cleaning.<br />
I’m tired of cleaning.<br />
<br />
When the washer spun, the fridge hummed, <br />
and the sound of electricity droned,<br />
the microwave made its final claim<br />
and popped. <br />
<br />
And then there was only silence<br />
darkness<br />
and filth.Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-9962961792212228102014-02-16T16:37:00.000-08:002014-02-18T16:38:44.172-08:0018. Stealing HealthHer radiation drains me,<br>
stealing my health.<br>
On Fridays, I can feel <br>
her bad glow <br>
penetrating <br>
my stale blue office walls.<br><br>
Sage explodes in this room.<br><br>
She wrote about Navajo witchcraft -<br>
the only researcher to do so. <br>
She was warned about Indian power.<br><br>
Her research lab of sand and color <br>
swirl out of control, <br>
as organs fail and limbs shatter. <br><br>
Large white pills<br>
mixed with foolish attempts <br>
of misused power<br>
break down in her bowel.<br><br>
I spend fewer hours in her office,<br>
protecting my own health <br>
from her desperate grasp.<br><br>
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-16375993494347080432014-02-09T12:52:00.000-08:002014-02-09T12:52:00.806-08:0017. Tucson MurderThis neighborhood is infested <br>
with barking dogs and police <br>
sirens. I want to murder <br>
the repetitious noise reverberating <br>
down these streets and singing<br>
my neighbors to sleep.<br><br>
And chemicals seep <br>
from the pores of the nightwalker <br>
slinking past my bedroom window <br>
at 2 am. I don’t need a barking dog <br>
or helicopter hum to know <br>
he’s there. I hear his shoes <br>
crunching on the gravel.<br><br>
A ribbon of sage smoke twirls <br>
around my room, and I am protected.<br><br>
But that dog grew three decibels <br>
lower in tone since June and I hope <br>
this new owner isn’t as deaf as -<br><br>
Her dog barks incessantly <br>
because her husband is in rehab; <br>
their grandson creeps between <br>
the fence and shed, tinkers <br>
with the fuse box, hides <br>
under a ratted tarp. His mother <br>
threw him across a room<br>
when he was an infant, and his father <br>
doesn’t hear him say <br>
“dad, dad, dad” repeatedly<br><br>
like the car alarm no one hears, <br>
like the barking dogs that no one <br>
hears, like the crunching on the gravel <br>
that only I can hear<br>
this town is full of murder.<br><br>
<i>(7/12/08)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-34414660813190369052014-02-02T12:45:00.000-08:002014-02-02T12:45:00.189-08:0016. CardinalMother, her mother <br>
killed her daughter’s <br>
baby. <br>
Indian killer, Indian killer<br>
she slayed that poor baby.<br><br>
<i>(12/6/09)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-18217440278261326362014-01-26T09:00:00.000-08:002014-01-26T09:00:01.078-08:0015. City LimitsThat Navajo horse of a woman <br />
lassoed you in <br />
wrapping her long brown silky legs <br />
round your waist <br />
and neck. <br />
<br />
Your bayou-bred arms <br />
accustomed to fishing <br />
couldn’t handle <br />
that Navajo horse of a woman.Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-46859910160331562772014-01-19T12:44:00.000-08:002014-01-19T12:44:00.248-08:0014. DartmouthThe gray misted air eroded my layers:<br>
absorbed by my skin, and mixed <br>
with their icy cold questions,<br>
my breath became sick with absence.<br><br>
Wrapped in blankets, I could see<br>
the dismal light penetrating <br>
the particles of mist <br>
seeping in.<br><br>
Seeping in <br>
through the cracks <br>
of my bedroom walls,<br>
crawling across my floor,<br>
pulling themselves up <br>
and onto my bed.<br><br>
Cold heavy bones like metal <br>
cut through drenched skin.<br>
Blood soaked in, saturated<br>
sheets, <br>
and stained my memories <br>
and my blankets.<br><br>
Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-53024763312324376232014-01-12T12:43:00.000-08:002014-01-12T12:43:00.172-08:0013. AshesAnother cigarette butt <br>
flies from his fingertips, <br>
he inhales the smoke <br>
as if it would give him wisdom.<br><br>
Standing outside, looking in, <br>
he recites to himself:<br>
Ashes, ashes,<br>
everyone’s dying to meet her.<br><br>
Inside, inside, he obsesses over how <br>
he’s going to get inside, inside. <br>
With his scrawny legs he paces <br>
in the back, craving another cigarette.<br><br>
His belly, that empty belly, <br>
led him across borders, past mile markers <br>
and into this small Indian town.<br><br>
Of wheat and ocean,<br>
or quill and lake,<br>
eyes survey the same landscape.<br>
To rape and own,<br>
or use and return,<br>
men find ways to fill <br>
those aching bellies.<br><br>
<i>(7/9/08)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910169119590858131.post-34109497490408516522014-01-05T12:41:00.000-08:002014-01-05T12:41:00.017-08:0012. They Come From the WatersThey come from the waters: <br />
lake, ocean, river. <br />
I’ve seen them <br />
emerging slowly, deliberately, <br />
stepping from deep spaces onto shore.<br />
<br />
By only moonlight, they begin.<br />
Sometimes they sing you to them, <br />
unintelligible words wrap around and <br />
draw you near. <br />
Other times they fake a human plea, <br />
too pitiful to abandon. <br />
They can make the still waters dance <br />
white shimmering reflection.<br />
<br />
With a power so strong, particles <br />
of copper shed from their bodies.<br />
Tokens of good to balance the actions <br />
of theft, death and lying.<br />
<br />
I watched them <br />
drown you <br />
then release you. <br />
Then sink back into the waters.<br />
<br />
Tobacco, prayers, a thick sweat, <br />
a journey.<br />
Sweat, smudge, cleanse<br />
Medicine for the body<br />
Medicine for the body<br />
Medicine for the body<br />
<br />
<i>(9/27/13)</i>Dr. Jessica R. Metcalfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01281781256628889489noreply@blogger.com