aayoung
so he took her like an animal
but my father’s ghost wept
so she went to the men
like a good American
good people don’t want to believe
in visionaries good or bad
especially when you have red clay mud
starved stabbed scabbed over and over
on your grandmother’s dress from being raped just like her
from ft. Sumter to Wounded Knee
he’d never seen that color red come out of a living fertility statue
my veil is torn
the dog is dead
the natives have resumed their drumbeat
Do you think
Canadians feel like
they occupy
the spacious attic
of hell?
this poem
just placed its fingers
to delicate collar bone
and looked at you in such a way
that only a woman who knows
her daddy was a well deposed king
may do
silently saying
were he not my father
i could love you
