When Winter Come
Page 2
i am older than man and light
i am of god not god
but like god, i am also inside of every man
for all are born in me and form there until
they are flushed naked into the world
and i remain there in them like god
until they depart and return to dust
captain clark saw me
as a great wet road that could be conquered
with the rowing and paddling of men
under his command
so i showed him
my many rapids and waterfalls
made his men carry their own boats
and supplies around me for miles at a time
these were the good years
white men had not yet studied the beaver
and learned how to redirect my paths
manage my flow harness it for their own use
attempt to enslave me too
captain lewis was different.
to him i was a piece of art
he marveled at the natural
falling of my waterlocks and felt humbled
by the beautifully carved rock masterpieces
that adorn my canyons and walls
while i have been at most an open way
for the white man
to the red man
i have been viewed as a helpmate
considered a wife
carrying their salmon and trout
providing for their
transportation and nourishment
surrounding them
moving through them
in the heat of the sweat lodge
answering their prayers
when they dance
but the black one was the only one
taught to both fear and respect me
and though i was the road
that carried the ships of death
to and from africa’s shores
i became the waiting outstretched arms
for those who refused
to be enslaved
for those who trusted me
to rock their babies off to sleep
my ocean floors are covered with his people’s resistance
i carry their spirit in every splash i make
their humming
their lost voices
their last words
have become a part
of my sweetest songs
when he is whole
again
when york knows
what he is worth, i will well up inside
of him and he will hear
them sing.
Watkuweis Speaks
Watkuweis Speaks
We knew they were coming.
Our medicine men have been telling
of their arrival since before I was born.
When our warriors saw their small herd
their first thoughts were to kill them all
and with it the destruction they carried.
This I also believed they should do
until I saw the black one
standing off to the side
a small mountain
pretending to be a man
a man pretending to be on a leash.
To the unlearned eye he looked to be all alone
but when I stared at him with my spirit eye
I could see a great long woman standing behind him
with her arms crossed
and a herd of strange-looking buffalo
large black cats, striped horses
and other wild beasts like I’d never even seen
in my dreams
stretching to where the sun rises.
I did not know what destruction his death
would earn us, so I counseled against it
and talked of the white men who were kind to me
when I was young and lost
which caused the warriors to put away their weapons
and welcome them with open arms.
Without Bibles
Without Bibles
We were taught generosity to the poor and reverence
for the Great Mystery. Religion was the basis for all
Indian training.
—Ohiyesa, Santee Sioux
Massa call them heathens
when them clean they naked flesh
with ice cold mountain water
before crawling backward
into a dark hot hole in the earth
like they crawling back in the woman
who first give them life
sit there an suffer in thick steamy darkness
with other naked men
just to sweat an pray
sweat an sing
sweat an sweat an sweat
all the while asking blessings for they family, yours
they enemy, the land, the water, plants
an all the animals them share the earth with.
Sitting in a river a sweat
be no more than bathing to the captains
but a blind man can see God
in everything the red man do.
Whupped
Whupped
When the Mandan try to kill his wife
for lying with Sgt. Ordway, it cause
the captains to place married squaws
off-limits to the men’s private commerce.
One a them laugh an brag ’bout having his way
with a daughter ova chief
for no more than a empty tobacco box.
When we learn the Indians believe
our power can change hands an be gifted
by passing ’tween a woman’s thighs
we all takes advantage at every occasion
an in most every village
all along the great trip out an back
With Capt. Clark’s permission, I don’t hesitate
to enjoy myself an even have my nose opened
by a Nez Perce woman as beautiful
an rugged as the land we traveling through.
Like a Virgin
Like a Virgin
Grown folk don’t walk ’round on the plantation
holding hands, go for canoe rides or take long walks
with each other.
My Nez Perce gal was the first woman I chose
on my own an that I didn’t have to share with another.
I find myself staring into her eyes an smiling, learning
my big buffalo self to move like a turtle in her arms.
Men in the party think it strange that I not brag
’bout how many ways or how long we ride each other.
This way a being with a woman be so new an tender
I close my eyes an feel like a fresh born calf stumbling
on weak wet legs, discovering that it not the ground
that be moving.
Like Raven
Like Raven from Head to Toe
York’s Nez Perce wife
His hair and strength was not unlike
that of the wooly-headed buffalo.
Some of my people thought
he had been burned by a great fire
Others thought he had painted
himself in charcoal, as was the custom
for warriors returning from the warpath
making him the bravest among his party.
Two hard wet fingers did not remove
the black from his forehead or arms
nor did the sweat from our naked turtle dance
make his salty skin any less like the night.
Art of Seduction
Art of Seduction
York’s Nez Perce wife
I know a hungry man’s eye can undress a woman
from across a smoldering fire, because York did it.
When I grew warm to his advances,
I gave him permission and invited him over
without ever opening my mouth. I looked away,
then back, then away, then back, so
slow
when my eyes returned to meet his,
it made his nostrils flare and my heart beat
like two drums in my chest.
He didn’t have a courting flute, so the first music we made
between us was a way of looking into each other’s eyes
and exchanging naked promises so full of heat
passers-by would swear we were already man and wife.
His big hands were rough from a life full of hard work
but when they were filled with me
each one became a party of men deep in the wilderness
intent on exploring every mound
and knowing all of the hollowed-out and sacred places.
Quiet Storm
Quiet Storm
York’s Nez Perce wife
. . . may the moon softly restore you by night, may the rain wash away your worries . . .
—Apache blessing
While out searching for camas and other roots
to celebrate our choosing each other
I made pictures with my fingers and lips
trying to make the raven’s son understand
the number and beauty of the butterfly.
A rainstorm came out of the hills and forced us
to crawl under a giant pine’s outstretched wings.
The soft bed of needles under us and the music
in the steady downpour left us so warm and wet
we barely noticed when the rain stopped
and moved on across the valley.
Before our lips and tongues finally parted
we floated like two eagles circling midair
trying to pass off a just-caught salmon
a mile above the Clearwater.
Lovers’ Moon
Lovers’ Moon
York’s Nez Perce wife
After the redheaded one’s bed is made
and his stomach full of meat, he gives
my Tse-mook-tse-mook To-to-kean the slice of
daylight left to do as he pleases.
Pretending not to rush back to me
he passes by and nods.
After I track him down in the dark, jump on
his back and wrestle him to the ground
we wander off laughing toward the horses
then follow the riverbank upstream, holding hands
and looking for a private place to celebrate
the way the moon dances on the face of the water.
We find a rock to hold all our clothes
and play in the shallows like children
but after our bodies kiss, we stop to weigh
the gift of time alone and grow up real fast.
Midnight Ride
Midnight Ride
York’s Nez Perce wife
After the fires die down, a moon full of shine
allows us to wander off into the night’s arms.
Urged on by the river
and the night’s music, our two quickly become one.
Straddled aboard him
a buffalo robe around my shoulders and nothing else
I close my eyes and ride
low and close, the way a hunter tracks buffalo
in the deep winter snow.
Our gentle trot becomes a gallop and after a good sweat
our gallop becomes
a quiet stand. Then we bow our heads an wait
for our breaths to catch up.
After a quick dip in the cold river, I mount back up
for warmth and we ride slow
and long until my legs quiver and York finds the strength
to harness himself.
When he carries me back home to our mat
folded up in his arms like a child
we lie down in the lap of the night
both empty and full and sleep.
Circle a Gifts
Circle a Gifts
Goodrich has recovered from “the Louis Veneri”
[syphilis] . . . I cured him as I did Gibson last winter
by the uce of mercury.
—Meriwether Lewis, January 27, 1806
The men in the party don’t know
that the white men who come first left a gift
Capt. Lewis believe he can cure
with something he call mercury
’til the men start to lose they sight.
Them be surprised when a ax we trade
come back to meet us many miles and moons
up the M’soura, but even bigger surprises return
after we travels all the way to the ochian
an trade lil’ pieces a ribbon an trinkets
for a good time ’tween young Chinook thighs
Surprises that return to the givers
like a rabid bear easing out ova winter cave.
Forsaking All Others
Forsaking All Others
York’s Nez Perce wife
Babies have mothers to feed them
and keep them warm
Old men have children
to comfort their slow gray years
What kind of man needs another man
to carry him food, make his bed
and pack his things
and him not lame or blind?
What kind of man
makes one with such big medicine
pretend to be a child
and less?
How will he treat our warriors when
he does not need our food to stay alive?
I want to spit on the ground
when he comes near.
I can not respect the redheaded one
and honor my black man too.
Meteorology
Meteorology
I finds myself returning
to the sweat lodge at night
asking these beautiful an kind people’s
Great Spirit
to heap nothing but blessings
upon his red chil’ren
almost as much as I wish for even more snow
to keep us here long enough
to see my woman’s belly swell
with the only gift
I can leave her an them.
A nappy lil’ new York
who will only know
one Massa.
The one that give an protect life
an not the one
that make men slaves.
Capt. Lewis pace back an forth
Massa Clark cuss the whole day
at the deep mountain snow that stand
’tween us an the great plains.
Them both worry that us all grow too fat
an lazy to finish the journey home.
False Impressions
False Impressions
York’s Nez Perce wife
for Craig Howe
When winter comes, my people circle up and agree
on the most important thing that happened in the year,
an awful flood, an important battle, or the passing
of a great warrior, and boil it down to a picture
scratch it out on rawhide, and charge the storyteller
with remembering the details of the story.
The captains believed they impressed Native people
with their power and guns and mirrors and coins
and beads, but they didn’t even earn a winter count.
Praise Song
Praise Song
York’s hunting shirt
York be the strongest, blackest man
anybody this side of the big river has ever seen.
He might show his strength, strut, dance a jig,
or even tease the Indian children,
but he never brag ’bout that what make him
even more proud, that what connect him
to his true man-self, what the natives respect
him most for, his prowess and feats as a hunter.
What other slave you know carry a gun and a hatchet
and a knife s
harp enough to split a man’s ribs and still
his heart, but be too self mastered to even think on it?
Useful tools, knives and guns, but ain’t no magic in them.
The magic was in York. He had the power.
How else you figure a man, twice as big as some,
larger than most, step in among the dead leaves
and wild things and simply disappear?
How else you think he walk right up on wild game
have it sniff the air, tweak its ears
and still not see him less than a touch away?
Standing as still as an oak. Breathing like the forest.
How you reckon he never bring home anything tough
and hard to chew, muscles still in shock from fear
or struggle? He took his game with so much speed
and skill the animals thought they was still alive.
Wrapped around him like a second skin, I hugged him
back into his true self, merged my scent with his,
transformed one of the ancestor’s fiercest gifts—reduced
to a white man’s slave—back into a real man again.
I swallowed his sweat when he fought with the great
grizzly bear. I felt his heart slow down as he walked
among herds of buffalo. He and I engaged in the dance
of hunting before his blade made the kill.
Like all before me, my two-tone skin is rich and thick
with the color of tree bark and makes him
one with the earth and bush whether the leaves be
on the ground or in the air.
The smell of the outdoors is ground deep into me:
perfume of grasshopper juice, huckleberries, bitter grasses,
animal dung, and the richness of fresh-turned dirt.
I would not be welcome at the fancy dinner table.
There are pouches of dried roots, coyote anklebones,
buffalo teeth, bear claws, and bird quills piercing
every part of me. I could ride his back for a hundred years
and you still could not tell us from the forest.
My purpose is simple. Protect him from harm, guarantee
he never go hungry, and connect him to the hunters, griots,
and sorcerers coursing through his veins. So I do just that
and raise his name in song.