Every night she sits, there,
across the river.
I can see her face in the firelight,
neither ghost nor human,
hard and red as the ground she sits on.
Chanting to her Gods.
A collection of animals,
carved in wood,
painted on canvas with
ochre and pitch.
She can see me,
trying to hide behind night's curtain.
A frightened girl,
alone for the first time.
Her songs curl into the sky,
spread downriver.
A goodnight to a world
that was once hers.
A lullaby to those Gods.
A lullaby to the naked valley.
A lullaby to me.
2 comments:
Number 50. I've never written this much in my life. Anyway, my Grandpa left for California to get money right after my grandparents were married. Apparently they lived across the river from this old Kiowa Indian lady that my Grandma was scared to death of. So she's there at like 16 living across from this creepy old lady in a strange place by herself. I romanticized it a little.
I really like the imagery in this poem; it's very vivid. And, as far as taking on the persona of your grandmother, big ups! I had just imagined the speaker being male until the third stanza. Very nice.
Congrats on number 50!
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