A Sheep Dog Locked in Photograph

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