I prefer women with flesh, the bones
have too much to say about cemeteries.
Here they’re so thin I can’t see them.
When I first came here I grew plants
that were dead by morning.
I went alone seeking quiet.
Then the subway burst through my sleep, inches away.
I prayed to whatever god listened,
hearing 15 million buffalo die.
Now when I close my eyes to talk
to the voices I hear Little Crow –
Hawk that Hunts Walking, speak out.
How he led without hope to the slaughter.
He’s gone saying his people can’t win,
he wants peace, not the life of a no one.
A year later shot down
picking berries, they threw him
in the offal pit. So much for Little Crow.
I’ve seen their cities.
I have nothing to put out but this hand
and this little glass.