Our prairie town stood
in an unending stretch of South Dakota plain
that rolled on for as far
as any eye could see
with not one tree.
Here I dreamed
in the crouched shade of rabbit nests
and killdeer flight,
in the shade of the feigned broken wings of mother birds,
in the shade of tractor blades and haystacks.
This was where I would sunburn and sand stick and deer fly scratch.
Where the ticks waited for me on the wood of the thickets.
Where no dangerous animals lurked
since the gray wolves were ghosts
and the brown bears memories.
Here the Sioux were sequestered in the bars and the reservations.
The horses were safe behind fences,
the cattle wore the tattoos of their owners,
and feral cats were the only descendants left
in the decaying houses of the homesteaders
of half a century before.
The floorboards of my Grandmother’s homestead
sagged to the dry dirt,
and the roof and timbers
fell to blanket them.
The ribs of plows rusted
in the spring rainstorms.
Prairie fires burned away rust
and snow peeled away ashes
to the muscle of iron
which it picked at like scabs—
iron to rust to ashes to iron to rust.
Kicking the hard clods with my feet,
I knew that under me were arrowheads
and flint strikers
and white stone buttons
in the shape of thunderbirds—
All the rich Indian treasures
buried under the soil
to be turned up some day by the plow of my dad .
Curled up into the furthest corner of the couch,
I listened to the stories traded between my dad and his friends.
Tales of gray wolves
and children lost in snowstorms,
Indian wanderers and recluse homesteaders
to be lifted out of my dad
like he lifted the Indian relics from the soft soil.
And I feel a part of the prairie dogs and the wild kittens,
the rabbits and the killdeer in their nests.
I feel both threatened and protected by the land––
like a child given asylum under the shadow of trees.
Like myself sheltered in the arms of the child I’ve grown from.
That child who, wanting to grow up and feel less,
Comforts its grownup self, who wants the feeling back.
