Owning 60 Acres, Stolen from Indians
They were the Ho Chunk, or the
Fox
In pretty paddle boats on the
waters
Where they used to “roam,” it
is said
Selling off dark and braided daughters
Their stories slung low as
effigies
And conifers bent down for
hunts
We own a basket made by them
In the attic of our cottage,
munched
Faces painted, dancing, wrapped
In wigwams, fornicating in
latter
Roaming with the buffalo, or
was that
The Sioux? It doesn’t matter
My ancestor was kidnapped
By a band of warriors, dark
Riding horses crippled, bare
Until they vanished, famous,
stark
Photo books for the coffee
table
The gift shop sells them in a
row
A white young lady is at stake
Settlers’ barrels straighter
than a bow
Cream & sugar on the deck
This morning above Bear Lake
I think I shall fish today
where
I hold the deed by no mistake
The refrigerator magnet
proclaims
How many ways they saw the sky
Above the sofa, in acrylic
Chief Seattle whispers “Why?”
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