Synaesthesia Magazine Americana - Page 15

at pine ridge

Come with me where the buffalo go

Into the violet-sprung sloughs reeking with spring

To the places where grasses threaded with the beads I lost

Last winter

Whisper and sing:

This is my place, this is my place,

Is it yours?

High-tail it beyond the fence,

Past the middling kids with the cans,

The dead-eyed big ones and their dads.

Skip by the schoolhouse and run away, run away!

The best is over here.

Point your nose next to mine,

Listen for the wolf-trail.

Buffalo wolves: bigger, darker, the brute side of here;

My grandfather says his grandfather told him

Of the amber eyes that tracked the wagons

And dared to lick the fires.

Tip-toe toe-tip ti to

With me, through this place

Where the bones of our fellows lie

Unquiet yet in their frozen shrouds.

Feet-eat the ground,

And make for the cottonwood.

Gopher-scrabbling, let’s den in the dirt at its roots,

Trace peregrines through the green filter of leafy armour

And, when night closes day,

Sleep with the songbirds in its branches.