Trot Song

During the Grayhorse

Dances in June,

my mother side-stepped

around the circle,

echoing moves

her grandmother

Tallchief had taught.

Someone pulled me

aside, insisting

I stop my mother

from dancing. When

she had to lie

motionless during

an MRI,

my mother said

she would pretend

to hear the drum

pulse of her youth.

My daughter and I

now enter the circle,

pick up our pace

as we imitate

the gait of mares

trotting, those songs

chanted by

generations

of warriors

who galloped back

into the heart

of the village.

Wrapped in what

we inherited,

striped broadcloth blankets,

we shadow chestnuts,

pintos, palominos,

claiming back hoofbeat.