mom and dad live on an old reservation

along a river named after a fire making stone

but all it is now is poison.

reserved portions for waiting

as in purgatory

for the time when hell becomes heaven

or heaven becomes hell

or when none of us know the difference.

i fed upon the bones of my mother's mother's mother

and was forced to feed from father's father's father.

although,

who can tell on this day who sinned greatest?

feather in my braid and bare footed i planted myself

among the trees

conjuring up an imaginary history i thought was

written on my mother's cheeks.

and for a moment

bareback on a white mare with a white wolf alongside

on my 40 acre reservation

was a sufficient freedom.

if heaven was the leaves and hell was the wind

when the autumn came they became

inevitably

one and the other

so the pleasure of touching heaven

brought about it's burial and it's rot.

if life and death are definite

then the river is dead

the indian nations are dead