Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

                 Upon the Return of Artifacts to Wounded Knee

                    “We hope the spirits are on their way now.”

                                       -Richard Broken Nose

A knife, a needle, an arrow, a pair of shoes
Some beads, a shirt, a drum, a tobacco pouch
A little girl’s doll, fragments of a ***
And tools for completing one’s daily chores

They are not artifacts; they are not displays
They are the ordinary necessities of life
Stolen from the dead hands of innocents
To be numbered, indexed, filed, boxed, and mocked

These things are sacred now, part of the Great Dance of Creation
We pray the spirits will come and take them home


As plundered items return to Wounded Knee, decisions await (artdaily.com)

Them **** beasts
Hunt our cattle
Picking out the weak.
Go get your rifle, son.
Go fetch your boots.
Those *******
Look best skinned
And ******
Across the bed
Of this old truck.

I nod along with them.
I plod along with them to get the guns;
Isn't this necessary,
After all?

But inside my soul
I feel a dark night spreading
No, not sinister
But sweet.
The stars above like scattered drifts
Of snow spilled in the wind and crunching under
Loping feet.


And I am standing on a narrow ridge
And listening.
Hidden like some ephemeral thing,
Like sweetgrass burning in the wind;
Listening.

And I can feel them rising.
I can hear them crying,
A ghostly sobbing.
Falling on my knees
I call them.

To the draw they run!
Run!
Like so many mothers clutch their young
And all the warriors toss their guns
And still the cavalry descends,
Run!

Across the creek and trailing blood, she runs.
Singing her howling song, she runs.
Howling her death song, she runs.  

And in one last act of desperation falls.

I see them drag her carcass up the draw.

And in the truck, they’re laughing,
Humming, slapping knees, and spitting,
Like some celebratory release.  

In my head, a single phrase:
Them **** beasts.