The Day She Slipped Away




They heard yelling late in the afternoon, then

silence. No lights lit her apartment that night.


Now, it's December,

yellow oozes through

clouds soiled gray.

Skeletal Maples remember

June Twenty-fifth,

Battle of The Greasy Grass

when Yellow Hair and his command

fell into Tatanka Yotanka's Dream.

A victory, hollow,

anniversary of an end

the day

she slipped 

away.


Some thought

The Ghost Dance

would bring

the buffalo back.

She thought Jack and pills

would dull chaos

to her haunted head.

Some spirits don't leave.

They still march arm in arm

with Manifest Destiny, making us regret

who we were and who we will never be.

Propaganda

concocted by parents

or a government that

cuts your braids, and fits you with Carlisle's

tight, white collar 

just to remind you

of who wins.

That is the truth,

and if you don't believe it,

you will dance at the end of a bayonet,

then be buried

under the mists 

of History.


I texted her that day.

Thought all was well.

Oh, Hell.

Life belongs to those who want it.

 

Did she really think

she could stop

wagon trains to Mars.

 

Silly girl

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