INDIAN BLOOD
On the stage I stumbled,
my fur boot caught
on a slivered board.
Rustle of stealthy giggles.
Beendaaga’, mittens, made of velvet
crusted with crystal beads
hung from brilliant tassels of wool
wet with my sweat.
Children’s faces stared.
I felt their flowing force.
Did I crouch like goh, the rabbit,
in the curious quiet?
They butted to the stage,
darting questions; pointing.
Do you live in an igloo?
Hah! You eat blubber!
Hemmed in by ringlets of brass,
grass-pale eyes,
the fur of daghooda-aak, my caribou-skin parka,
trembled.
Late in the night
I bit my hand until it was
pierced
with moods of dark
Indian blood.