Stage Indian

History offered her no hiding place
From where the fingers of a ghoulish God
Upon the throat of her red bloodied race
Had tried to break her neck into a nod.

Far from the grassy ghetto called a home
With the clichés that no one really owns
Surrendering a ghost, as trite as rhyme,
She cast the die that rolls like deadmen's bones.

The blood may still be dripping from the rock,
The mind of these late days red white and bruised,
But she had foodstamps, not a tomahawk
And now wears shameful feathers to amuse
Them. She is calm. The buffalo bends to feed
And bears in its huge heart a raw stampede.

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