forestry
Monday morning it had to be when we, meaning the three of us, as in Joe-Joe, Stan, and me, cutting through brush thick as our hungover vision when Stan cut the hornet nest in half.
There was no time for fear, our stomachs throw-up empty, our spirit animals chased us back to the truck like ironic arrows.
I was the bravest warrior, killed many hornets while stung only twelve times. Joe-Joe was in the hospital for a week. Stan ran past the truck that day, is still running, slapping his skin, waving his arms wildly at real and imagined enemies.
Late at night, you can hear Stan's song echo across the reservation, his feet pounding the earth like a drum.
It is the loneliest song you will ever hear.
reservation stew
The Indian mother places her life on the cutting board. She has been waiting for years, her hips heavy with memories of children dead by house fire and car-wreck, children lost to college and prison, children abandoned by fathers and rent due, children born to children. She wants them all back.
Years ago, there was enough for everyone.
Now, the Indian mother measures every emotion exactly. A moment of sadness can be wasted easily. She finds leftovers from years of dreaming will not feed even the smallest heart.
In the grocery store, she digs into her change purse, needed a quarter for carrots, but finds a note instead: Sorry, I need the money for cigarettes.
The Indian mother walks in the hills, followed by generations of need. Can this pine tree substitute for a pickup truck? Do the small stones taste anything like hard candy? Will the bank accept deer tracks as collateral toward a home loan?
The Indian mother is afraid; she is not afraid.
At night, she sits by the window and watches for her children. Sometimes, the are bats flapping at streetlights or stray dogs howling in the dark. Once, her oldest son dressed up like a bear and slept on the roof of the Catholic church.
The Indian mother sings while she cooks, in a voice sharp enough to pull roots from the ground. She pours her whole life, her children, her children's children into the stew pot and simmers all over open flame.
After years of this slow cooking, she still waits to serve the last good meal.