Floating, eyes closed,
face to an unclouded sky,
held by the cool hands
of the Cheyenne River
in this elusive corner of Pine Ridge,
I forget – for a moment –
the uranium from inhuman mines
seeping
into each pore of my body
like late-afternoon sunlight into every window in town
The uranium I myself put here ...
by paying my taxes, by shopping for a bargain,
by reading the lies of American history textbooks,
by watching the propaganda of John Wayne
on Sunday afternoons wrapped
in a blanket the colors of the flag,
by thinking that wisdom is to be found in the books of dead men
rather than in the song of the nighthawk
or the poem of cottonwoods clacking in the breeze
I float, apart from myself,
allowing the river to carry me like a vapor,
my feet dragging through muck and over rocks;
weeds and small fish
brushing my legs in velvety greeting
The sun through these pale eyelids
becomes a field of sunflower;
the voices of the native children
downstream:
bees darting
among the golden heads nodding in the wind.
They transform this poison nectar into song.
And in my broken Lakota,
with my funny, city-bred accent,
I try to sing along:
Wanbli gleshka waniyan nihiyouwe
“A spotted eagle is coming for you”
When I stand and stagger to the shore,
dry off, and climb into my truck,
I hope that the toxins I have absorbed
will leave this river
some small part cleaner,
and will shine on my skin like a mirror.