Sara Littlecrow-Russell

You are beadwork woven by a broken Indian woman That I mend with cautious, needle-pricked fingers. You are raw sweetness of burning chaga Scraping my lungs and startling tears. You are the bear claw necklace No longer caressing The space between my breasts. You are cigarettes That I quit years ago, But sometimes smoke anyways. You are maple syrup on snow Melting on my tongue Until I ache from the cold. You are the cedar tree Sheltering my childhood From unwanted caresses. You are the star blanket Sliding off the bed on autumnal nights. You are a stubborn braid of wiingashk That must be relit with a dozen matches Before it releases thin streamers of sweetness. You are the love song Played on a reedless flute That only spirits hear.

I have made love with Pablo Neruda On the heights of Machu Picchu I flashed the tattoo on my thigh And hitched a lowride with Luis Rodriguez I have held Adrian Louis close And danced a wild reservation two-step Until beer cans and disposable diapers Spun around us like stars. I have surrendered to Leonel Rugama’s Burning adolescent heat And caressed Roque Dalton From a luxuriance of bed sheets and red wine. I stayed up all night reading Sherman Alexie, Nine months later, I gave birth to twin poems. This lust is not heterosexual. I devour Nikki Giovanni and Patricia Smith Like Sao Tome chocolate. I have been known to steal away for An afternoon tryst with Julia de Burgos. I wrap Nellie Wong around me like a silk robe. Tonight, I have a date to share a steamy bath With Linda Hogan and Joy Harjo And it’s gonna be gooooood . . .

Two hundred seventy Ghost Dancers died dreaming That humanity would drown In a flood of White sins. Then the renewed earth Would reclaim city and town, Leaving only Ghost Dancers And those who lived by nature’s laws. History books say the threat is gone. The Ghost Dance died with the ancestors— Wovoka and his sacred dream Were destroyed. Each time it rains, I go out to the sidewalk, Where the tree roots Have broken the concrete Listening to the water’s whispering: “It is coming soon.”