Catching a Snare Drum at the Fraser’s Mouth

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Out West: A Pow Wow

When the leaves of the aspens
turn to blue stone
the fingers are speaking
the young men and women
of Redstone gather in the dust of the longest day
the hands are speaking
striking the moon’s taut dog’s face
for a pow wow’s fancy dance
the wrists are speaking
as the earth sings itself
listening and whimpering in pleasure
the forearms are speaking
the fancy dancers reflecting sky
and the watchers
the elbows are speaking
with their presents of quilts from Zellers
and microwaves and kitchen utensils
the shoulders are speaking
who have driven from the breadth of the Interior
with their eagle feather headdresses
the backbones are speaking
and their beaded leather slippers
and bangles of silver
the chests are speaking
reflecting dust and drummers
and the pickups
the bellies are speaking
nuzzling pickups up to the gunwales in mud
in the parking lot
the hips are speaking
and folding bingo tables
unfolded and piled high with fried bread
the thighs are speaking
and just for this day like squalls of rain
children with greasy fingers
the knees are speaking
just for this day cast away and caught and
      cast again
in tiny mirrors
the shins are speaking
sewn into the sky-blue dresses
of the dancers
the calves are speaking
the yellow and red gowns
the black capes and tasselled leggings
the ankles are speaking
of the dancers their green and soaring fringes
their bells tied on with red thread
the feet are speaking
knotted with arthritic fingers
their eagle feathers
the toes are speaking
knotted with arthritic fingers
dancing the thread
the soles of the feet are speaking
of the dead and the thread of the living
the two threads that are the same thread
that the hearts are speaking.

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