Raid archeologists’ camps
     and steal shovels
     to rebury the dead

     Gather stories like harvest
     and sing honor songs

     Save the seeds
     to carry you through the winter

     Bury them deep in your flesh

     Weep into your palms
     until stories take root
     in your bones
     split skin
     blossom

There are stories caught
in my mother’s hair
I can’t bear the weight of

Could you give me a braid
straight down the middle
of my back just the way I like
So I part her black-going-silver hair
into three strands
thick as our history
radiant as crow wings

             This is what it means to be Indian
Begging for stories in a living room
stacked high with newspapers magazines baby toys

Mama story me

She remembers
     Great Grandmother Nancy Harmon
     who heard white women
     call her uppity Indian during
     a quilting bee
     and climbed down their chimney with
     a knife between her teeth

She remembers
     flour sack dresses
     tar paper shacks
     dust storms         blood       escape

She carries fire on her back
My fingers work swiftly as spiders
and the words that beat in my throat
are dragonflies

She passes stories down to me
I pass words up to her
Braid her hair

It’s what she doesn’t say
that could destroy me
what she can’t say
She weeps milk