On these plains the plows
and drums wrestle for centuries
and marry into resignation.
The old songs scratch the earth
attempting to release the ancestors.
Digging deeper, John Deere tractors
unleash the Ghost Dance
but nobody remembers the steps.
Cattle and deer graze together
in the moonlit fields, both
afraid of civilization, and
fearful of the forgetful
mouth of man.

***

Bob used to tell me
he thought drinking
was a revolutionary act.
Of course, this was before
he got out of his car
in a Badlands blizzard
and lurched until he turned
into a block of brown ice.
Months after my near fatal
operation I ask my doctor
if I can drink again.
I didn’t know you drank, he says.
Well, I haven’t in ten years,
I tell him and shake my head.
I’ve paid my dues and I’m
still a thirsty fool.
I leave his office and sigh,
knowing I’ve made it
through another day.
Ten years of one day at a time.

O sweet Mary of Nazareth,
my soul is the Black Rock Desert
and your son is not my wine.

***

Crossing into the rez,
most white people think
they’re entering Hell.
There is unmistakable scent
of brimstone, eternal damnation.
Everywhere they turn are burned-out
husks of abandoned cars and scarred
husks of abandoned humans,
shuffling, lost in the dreams of
their grandfathers.
Hope is only a word used
in grant applications or in
the leering glare of casino
one-armed bandits.

***

Yes, this is Indian Country
and we are bone and juice,
twelve frothy ounces of moon
drool, a touch of inexact wistfulness,
wry evaporation, and eventual extinction.
In America there is no truer place
for us to worship our terrible beauty.