Two stores competed for trade.
The butcher shop, mixed-bloods and skinners,
two churches competed for their souls.
Frames for the Lutherans,
Bricks for the Episcopalians,
and a steeple twice as high for the Catholics;
signs of pride.
It was a shadow thin as a needle;
The People saw it rise.
It drew near to them like a lone tree,
draws lightning.

In the white man’s town,
their names were lost.
You’ll fade out there,
and you won’t be an Indian once you return.
Power travels in the bloodlines,
but it comes up different every time;
This town has no ending,
it has no beginning.
In the City of Argus,
the white man’s town,
they only know,
they don’t know anything.

Poetry Magazine