Goodbye to All That

He could have taken you prisoner, of course

when our two tribes were at war

over whitefish and beaver territory

and the Anishinaabeg chased your Indian ancestors

from the woodlands he now brings you home to.

Or your Dakota relatives might have waged a war party

on their swift plains’ ponies to avenge your taking

and bring you back from those uncivilized

they named in disgust the rabbit-chokers.

But those histories of dog-eaters and Chippewa crows

are just a backdrop now for other stories

told together by descendants of smallpox survivors

and French fur traders,

clan members of Wolf and of Water Spirit.

And now you gather,

trackers and scouts in new bloodless legal battles,

still watch for mark and sign—

for the flight of waterbirds.

ii.

Old histories that name us enemies

don’t own us; nor do our politics

grown so pow-wow liberal you seldom

point out the follies of White Earth tribal leaders.

(Except of course for the time our elected chair

mistakenly and under the influence of civilization

drove his pickup down the railroad tracks

and made the tri-state ten o’clock news.)

And Sundays behind the Tribune

he seldom even mentions the rabid casino bucks

or gets out his calculator and with lodge-pole eyebrows

methodically measures beaded distances,

results of territorial lines drawn in your homeland.

And even though I have seen him sniff, glance over

he really almost never checks the meat in your pot,

nor reconnoiters the place of your rendezvous

just to be sure.

Source: Apprenticed to Justice (Salt Publishing, 2007)