"Before The Fur Shedding Grounds"
by
Buck
The cast of this place is barbaric,
wrapped in sweltering rags of ruddy bearskin.
Embers draw wisps of voices from those old enough
to brave the cavernous shadows at the edge of the light.
I clutch a bear-tooth doll;
its feathered face wilts in the hard heat.
My hands cannot bear to let it find a home next to my breast.
My mother doesn't watch me,
watching the smoke of uncle's words moving us all
across the golden mane of the vast prairie.
It is as it always is, leading
us back south to our ash-filled crevices,
our summer palisades,
where my Father whittles white ships
from the bones of sustenance.