Hershman John

All the old photographs, hidden like buried Treasure. Broken prayer sticks under my dreams And my worn mattress. Each one like a postcard sent back Home; wonders only seen in slick travel magazines. Boxed up under my bed, colored souls on Kodak paper— I can still see Grandma’s smile next to her resting sheep dog. Like a blue lightning strike over the northern sky, Over two black houses, I pull the first leaf out, at random. A picture-flash: Tom and Susie Worker are sitting together On a couch covered with a large Navajo Chief’s blanket woven By her brown hands and sheep’s wool. The pattern of stripes— Blue to black to white, shifting like rain clouds to clear skies. My grandparents look tired. The day was Christmas 1992, With a little bit of snow on the Earth. Tired from traveling Over 100 miles away from their painted desert To the city, tired from raising eleven children of the Deer Spring before the Depression, before Roosevelt, Before the World Wars, before computers, before Satellite phones and televisions . . . . Outside, the north wind Was blowing Tuba City away. But, Grandma’s and Grandpa’s Eyes are glazed red from happiness. Outside, The clouds swelled full of snow and ice. A blue lightning flash, another photograph, another place: New York, 1985: I see the Statue of Liberty, tiny, like a pin Stuck in the gray ocean, surrounded by the wrought metal Edges of Gotham City. It was the only picture I took: The dollar-bill green lady holding her torch, guiding Moths, reality, men and ferries. As she stood in iconic Pose, Grandma flooded back, quickly: strong in her own green Velvet dress, she stretched dough over her palms, making frybread. A foghorn wailed just past the Emerald City’s fiery torch. My mind refocused on the warm glow of a new moon. The Lady’s light filled the starless sky like Grandma’s teardrop Turquoise and silver brooch. Made from a thousand tiny Kingman Nuggets, its shine captured in a perfect burst— A sunflower high on a green stem. Each seed a raindrop Made of smooth sky. When the sun touched the brooch, It was blinding. A perfect mosaic of water-light-sky stones. A blue strike—bright from a cigarette—steals Lady Liberty’s light. The Staten Island ferry moves on to Crow Agency, Montana. At Custer Battlefield, my cousins smile for a picture, tourists Next to Custer’s grave. Defiant, wearing dark shades, They hold up cans of Coors Light waiting for Custer to rise Again so they can take up their bows, arrows, uzis. Warriors, Proud and ready to hide deep in the yellowtail prairie grass. Their women and children safe in tipi camps by the Little Bighorn River. I know they would die again and again. Rise Again and again to put up more white marble tombstones. They would do this to save our future children, to save our Grandmas—Mary Black Eagle, Susie Worker, Great Great Great Grandmother Lefthand . . . . They would save our grandfathers too— Sonny Black Eagle, Tom Worker, the horned toad . . . . Lodge Grass Indians, the high school basketball team, plays A few miles from Mary’s block house and her ten grazing horses. Her basketball team is waiting for the final winning basket To end time, an orange ball to shoot dead the visiting team From Billings. Another war of Savages versus Whites. Won this time by the “Skins”—Class “B” State Champs again. Two Leggings, a ’49, a warrior’s party. The tranquil dark Raven feathers, a deep cold night fueled by a bonfire and beer. Victory runs hot, steaming piss into the trout-filled river Lined by a hundred cars, nights caws, and some more tame Drinking brawls. All night long, the happy Indian basketball Warriors sing ’49 songs:We won, but my dark-hair girlfriend Left with one of the blue-eyed. He na ya na

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes In their stone boots. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone. —Anne Sexton Pick up the smooth stone at your boot tip— Quickly blow the dust off the edge. This is for Sexton’s mother who died March 1959. This is for Sexton’s father who died June 1959. This is for love born in September 1949. When Autumn came, it left the trees bare. Leaves are but whisper ready to become snow. No sign of a harvest, no corn. This is for Anne. I breathe out carbon, breathe in carbon, in early October 1971. The stones in the river’s currents Are polished. I was conceived in the empty Winter. Little did I know when Coyote threw His one stone into the perfect pool, it meant One by one, we die just as amber mosquitoes. For the Navajo people, Coyote threw the stone Into the ocean for our survival. Across the ocean, Past television screens—Marie, sweet Marie— This is for Marie’s voice and scrolling words: Tumor in the back of the head. The black birds Fill the sky as icy hail: It Must Have Been Love. September 2002, I have lived another year. I wish Sweden to keep her goddess of music. Another new moon passes and I understand The word terminal. This is for Coyote And his ability to hide his life force. This again Is for understanding Sexton today. This is for My mother who will weave an AIDS quilt. She’ll use a loom and yarn and tears, this is for Love and hoping that when the universe ends We never hear the splash. We never hear th—

after Elizabeth Bishop for Scott Manning Stevens The monoliths, sandstone carvings crest high in the air, tall like redwoods with striking wind-eroded, rain-washed, sunny edges. Driving from the East, two lovers from Chicago discover a new city made of sand cliffs, rabbit brush, red soil, a prairie dog’s echoes, heavy dark clouds, sharp yucca. Sheep dot the valley, nibbling on wild green shoots. Monument Valley— 50 miles from Kayenta