Imagined Indians / the Ground Spoke
Looking past
suction-cup arrows
and cheap plastic bows,
my brother settles
on a toy wooden
musket and coonskin
cap, hung to the left
of the sale window
in a Blue Ridge
tourist store.
Our parents buy a
second set, and we’re
matched the rest
of the day:
exchanging empty
rifle cracks from behind
the boulders along
the clean hiking paths
to the top of the
mountain.
At the summit,
my brother raises
the butt of his gun
and rams it against
my cheek; his face: red,
angry. Our mother
scolds him, reminds him
we’re brothers; we don’t
fight with each other;
we’re not savages.
In the afternoon,
our father buckles us
both into the back-
seat of our car, and we
close our eyes for the
long, winding drive back
down the Parkway: two
Boones, two Crocketts, foe-
less, now, and silent;
sleeping on and off.
I have a picture
at home: A doe-skinned
Mother, papoosed,
paused mid-stride along
a game trail, bare foot
lifted and waiting
to slip silently
into the oil-painted
underbrush. White streaks
filter down through the trees.
Caps in my pocket,
striped raccoon tail pinched
in the nape of my
neck, I imagine
Indians, smooth, dark,
hatchets in hand, bows
on their backs, quiet –
each frozen in step
as our car turns tightly
around another corner.
10-21-08
