Poem for Tuesday, June 11, 2013

The Indian Woman under the Tent, Name Unknown

Beneath a blue tarp
      not like the sky
she is saved from the sun
      not like the pines
canyon-swallowed in
      dark green surrender

in her chair, sitting
      red clay, gravitas
some southern tourists
      eye her wrinkles
finger the turquoise
       laid on her table

her daughter recites
      who carved the flutes
who made the jewelry
      breaks their fifties
and sends a message
      on her cell phone

if you were to ask
      she would explain
the eagle feather
      will guard your soul
and remain so delicate:
       like this

she would say words
      in her language
for you to repeat
      and smile childlike
at the blood on your
      fresh bitten tongue