Old Indian Hand Against A Blue Sky

Old Indian Hand Against A Blue Sky

You rise like a tortoise
with years of clay on your back, rise
above the dull buzz of insects and desert dust
with the broken canyons of your veins showing,
the bits of snowy sand
clinging to your skin like stars.

The bone of your index finger was broken
a thousand rivers ago
on some white man's stone.

Now that bent finger
is forever pointing west.

You reach up like ruffled crow feathers,
like a juniper's dream.
And every knuckle opens its wrinkled mouth
and begins to sing.

Old Indian hand, you rise up
like five-winged fire
trying to touch the sky's blue shell
and paint it red.

by Bill Meissner

Contributors retain all rights to their work. ©1996 Kaleidoscope. Write Place. Volume 7.

URL: http://leo.stcloud.msus.edu/kaleidoscope/oldhand.html

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