November Becomes the Sky With Suppers for the Dead

I am standing outside in Minnesota ghost wind recalling names in winter mist The road smells of dogs two days dead White photographers talk in the house of mainstream media I can’t articulate the agony of Eagle Singer’s children to them. We celebrate the old man while another generation shoots crushed and heated prescriptions sells baskets, machinery, the fixtures yet to be installed in the house, yet to be heated by the tribal government, for another night stolen by the stupors and the wondrous pleasure of forget everything medicines. Back inside Uncle Two Dogs rolls me a smoke out of organic American Spirit I look to a last cup of coffee. The way home fills with snow our tracks human and machine.