Mark Turcotte

somewhere in america, in a certain state of grace . . . Patti Smith As a child I danced to the heartful, savage rhythm of the Native, the American Indian, in the Turtle Mountains, in the Round Hall, in the greasy light of kerosene lamps. As a child I danced among the long, jangle legs of the men, down beside the whispering moccasin women, in close circles around the Old Ones, who sat at the drum, their heads tossed, backs arched in ancient prayer. As a child I danced away from the fist, I danced toward the rhythms of life, I danced into dreams, into the sound of flies buzzing. A deer advancing but clinging to the forest wall, the old red woman rocking in her tattered shawl, the young women bent, breasts drooping to the mouths of their young, the heat hanging heavy on the tips of our tongues, until the Sun burned the sky black, the moon made us silvery blue and all of the night sounds, all of the night sounds folded together with the buzzing still in our heads, becoming a chant of ghosts, of Crazy Horse and Wovoka and all the Endless Others, snaking through the weaving through the trees like beams of ribbons of light, singing,we shall live again we shall live, until the Sun and the Sun and the Sun and I awaken, still a child, still dancing toward the rhythm of life.

Back when I used to be Indian I am standing outside the pool hall with my sister. She strawberry blonde. Stale sweat and beer through the open door. A warrior leans on his stick, fingers blue with chalk. Another bends to shoot. His braids brush the green felt, swinging to the beat of the jukebox. We move away. Hank Williams falls again in the backseat of a Cadillac. I look back. A wind off the distant hills lifts my shirt, brings the scent of wounded horses.