Calling Down thru the Centuries

     Tracing a Trail of Tears…

   The Trail, so long ago. Now see the traces of hot tears down our dusty cheeks. Feel the same blood pumping thru these veins as in those:

    Red like the purest ruby, and it will pour forth if you cut us. Your words cut like the edge of a knife, a ruby red blade across a human throat.

   Do not gloat, you who know the glut of Buffalo meat, blood red heart still beating in hand, Son of man.

    A man of the Sun, of the People, the Black Hills, the Antelope Valley…The Mohawk mountains, man.  The salmon-colored sands of the Sonoran Desert.

   We chased the sidewinder, ran with roadrunners. Our feet bled walking empty highways, empty citrus groves, riding empty boxcars.

   We are women, tired and beaten. Down the tears ran like the scars on our back, scars on our heart.

   Where are you, raven-haired brother? Do you hear me , calling across the centuries?   

   Does my black mother bear my sorrow, black Mother-bear?

    Alone now; my voice reaches all the way around this broken bowl of me

   The wind washes the empty, clay basin of my soul…

   I am not whole-I wholly am not holy, man.

   Holy man, what is better than this sweet sorrow?

   Or more bitter medicine than this abiding pain, Medicine man?

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