“Here I am in the reservation of my mind.”
                                    Adrian C. Louis
Screams drown the sound of hand on face;
or is it a fist? It takes a cross country drive
for the bruises to fade. There was snow in
Flagstaff, temperature 106 in Phoenix.
In a place called Needles an old man with
brown skin, more like wood than leather,
stared at me as I fingered the sandstone
figures of wolf, raven, buffalo. There were
questions about pictures on hides and bark,
answers stopped short by a jerk of the arm,
“Don’t talk to these people” hissed in an ear.
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“Hurry up and go.”
Walking past the old man, “There is a spirit
following you. Do not let them chase it away.”
The first hint I was switched at birth.