Let October’s fool fall
With the autumn dusk;
A cornfield tatterdemalion
With terrible teeth
And broomstick hands.
High on the hill,
Encircled by dancing children
And harvest lovers,
Jack’s pumpkin blazes
As yellow as prairie gold
Under the ghostly lantern moon.

It seems this week has taken to its own will
chased me down the hill into the prairie as it came close
to lunchtime
–the starving lads crying–
the whetstone ready
its hands skinning my lips,
for once I am glad
there are no feathers
anywhere close to my mouth
–at least I can keep my wings

My Dakota plains
Broken by clusters of trees
That surround farms
Connected by black thin lines
Draped between poles
That follow roads

Or a shortcut across fields
On giant steel mannequins
Standing watch over
Corn, beans, sunflower
Or cows or horses
Or sheep

On My Dakota prairie
With rich black dirt
That feed crops
And sustain our towns
Our clusters of life
Our family and self.

Delicious hues of blue
Behind linen clouds
Stampeding
Slowly
From horizon
To horizon
As swirling calls of birds
Cheer them on.

to take pieces of land, like pie
purchased and stolen, like monopoly
and make it into something else,
like Europe

this was our promise

so like good soldiers
we planted our rows
cottonwood manioc peas and beans
painted flowers on walls
and floors, like our mothers
built porches for rocking chairs
to gather the children
and tell them all about it,
like refugees

the roots are deep now
but the ancient fear deeper
we glance over our shoulders, still
suspicious of our luck
awaiting the act of god that
will surely come,
like karma

I am
born on the prairie, stark clad
blue sky desert, blacktop desert, canola yellow desert
small in the great space
between us

I am
born of the mountains, wrapped
in forest standing strong-faced and tall, my
companions, rooted
my teachers

I am
born of beloved lands lost
many times over so faith becomes place
and we drift—
spirits uprooted

I am
born into the laws of my fathers, solemn
like their God, and righteous
holding fast to the book of their fathers
unyielding

I am
born of old world order imposed
on new world freedom—
the image shifts
and I blur

I am
born of the rhythm of my mothers
of life-force and flutter
small hands and steaming pots in hot kitchens
my church

I am
born of bleached fluorescent flicker
drawn into her whirling hurry
longing for rainfall and
idle play

I am
born of ghosts and tiny monsters
adrift in the hollow that bears their aching past
and tangled present
alien

I am
born of memory, my fingers carry secrets
daughter of the many mothers before me, their lives
tell the story
of mine

I am
born of the unknown, a swell in the stream
that spills into the ocean, I am
mother of many daughters
to come

...tell me who you are

prairie predator

traversing unseen highways

calling yet unseen

The long grass sways over
As the wind blows into it
Ripples of green flow