are the injured animals
for they live in his cages.
But who will heal my father,
tape his old legs for him?
Here’s his bird with the two broken wings
and her feathers are white as an angel
and she says goddamn stirring grains
in the kitchen. When the birds fly out
he leaves the cages open
and she kisses his brow for such
good works.
Work he says
all your damned life
and at the end
you don’t own even a piece of land.
Blessed are the rich
for they eat meat every night.
They have already inherited the earth.
For the rest of us, may we just live
long enough
and unwrinkle our brows,
may we keep our good looks
and some of our teeth
and our bowels regular.
Perhaps we can go live in places
a rich man can’t inhabit,
in the sunfish and jackrabbits,
in the cinnamon-colored soil,
the land of red grass
and red people
in the valley
of the shadow of Elk
who aren’t there.
He says the old earth
wobbles so hard, you’d best hang on
to everything. Your neighbors
steal what little you got.
Blessed are the rich
for they don’t have the same old
Everyday to put up with
like my father
who’s gotten old,
Chickasaw
chikkih asachi, which means
they left as a tribe not a very great while ago.
They are always leaving, those people.
Blessed
are those who listen
when no one is left to speak.