cheeks are the gouged blue of science,
whose torso springs out of wrung cloth
blazing ocher, blazing rust, whose blood
cools to black marble in his fist,
who makes his father kneel,
who makes his father say,
“You want her? Take her.”
Who rolls the stone from the entrance over his mother,
who pulls her veil out from under it,
who ties the stained cloth around his hips
and starts out,
walking toward Jerusalem
where they are gathering in his name.
The Savior
When the rain began to fall, he rolled back
into the clouds and slept again.
Still it persisted, beating at every surface,
until it entered his body
as the sound of prolonged
human weeping.
So he was broken.
His first tears dissolved
the mask of white stone.
As they traveled through the bones of his arms,
his strength became a mortal strength,
subject to love.
On earth, when he heard the first rain
tap through the olive leaves,
he opened his eyes and stared at his mother.
As his father, who had made the sacrifice,
stood motionless in heaven,
his son cried out to him:
I want no shelter, I deny
the whole configuration .
I hate the weight of earth .
I hate the sound of water .
Ash to ash, you say, but I know different .
I will not stop burning .
The Buffalo Prayer
Our Lady of the Buffalo Bones, pray for us.
Our Lady of the bales of skins and rotting hulks
from which our tongues alone were taken,
pray for us, Our Lady of the Poisoned Meat
and of the wolves who ate
and whose tongues swelled until they burst.
Our Lady of the Eagles Dropping from the Sky,
Our Lady of the Sick Fox and of the Lurching Hawk
and of the hunters at the edge of Yellowstone Park waiting
to rain thunder on the last of us.
Pray for us, Our Lady of Polaris.
Our Lady of the Sleek Skidoo.
Our Lady of Destruction Everywhere
Our bones were ground into fertilizer
for the worn-out eastern earth.
Our bones were burned to charcoal
to process sugar and to make glue
for the shoe soles of your nuns and priests.
Our Lady of the Testicle Tobacco Pouch
Our Lady of the Box Cars of Skulls,
pray for us whose bones have nourished
the ordered cornfields that have replaced
the random grass
which fed and nurtured and gave us life.
Rez Litany
Let us now pray to those beatified
within the Holy Colonial church
beginning with Saint Assimilus,
patron of residential and of government
boarding schools, whose skin was dark
but who miraculously bled white milk
for all to drink.
To cure the gut aches that resulted
as ninety percent of Native children are
lactose intolerant, let us now pray to the
patron saint of the Indian Health Service,
who is also guardian of slot machines,
Our Lady of Luck, she who carries
in one hand mistaken blood tests and botched
surgeries and in the other hand the heart
of a courageous doctor squeezed dry.
Let us pray for the sacred hearts of all good doctors
and nurses, whose tasks are manifold and made more difficult
by the twin saints of commodity food,
Saint Bloatinus and Saint Cholestrus,
who were martyred at the stake of body fat
and who preside now in heaven
at the gates of the Grand Casino Buffet.
Saint Macaronia and Saint Diabeta, hear our prayer.
It is terrible to be diminished toe by toe.
Good Saint Pyromane,
Enemy of the BIA,
Deliver us from those who seek to bury us
in files and triplicate documents and directives.
Saint Quantum, Martyr of Blood
and Holy Protector of the Tribal Rolls,
assist us in the final shredding which shall proceed
on the Day of Judgment so we may all rain down
in a blizzard of bum pull tabs
and unchosen lottery tickets, which represent
the souls of the faithfully departed
in your name.
Your name written in the original fire
we mistook so long ago for trader’s rum.
Pray for us, all you saints of white port
four roses old granddad and night train.
Good Saint Bingeous who fell asleep upside down on the cross
and rose on the third day without even knowing he had
whose torso springs out of wrung cloth
blazing ocher, blazing rust, whose blood
cools to black marble in his fist,
who makes his father kneel,
who makes his father say,
“You want her? Take her.”
Who rolls the stone from the entrance over his mother,
who pulls her veil out from under it,
who ties the stained cloth around his hips
and starts out,
walking toward Jerusalem
where they are gathering in his name.
The Savior
When the rain began to fall, he rolled back
into the clouds and slept again.
Still it persisted, beating at every surface,
until it entered his body
as the sound of prolonged
human weeping.
So he was broken.
His first tears dissolved
the mask of white stone.
As they traveled through the bones of his arms,
his strength became a mortal strength,
subject to love.
On earth, when he heard the first rain
tap through the olive leaves,
he opened his eyes and stared at his mother.
As his father, who had made the sacrifice,
stood motionless in heaven,
his son cried out to him:
I want no shelter, I deny
the whole configuration .
I hate the weight of earth .
I hate the sound of water .
Ash to ash, you say, but I know different .
I will not stop burning .
The Buffalo Prayer
Our Lady of the Buffalo Bones, pray for us.
Our Lady of the bales of skins and rotting hulks
from which our tongues alone were taken,
pray for us, Our Lady of the Poisoned Meat
and of the wolves who ate
and whose tongues swelled until they burst.
Our Lady of the Eagles Dropping from the Sky,
Our Lady of the Sick Fox and of the Lurching Hawk
and of the hunters at the edge of Yellowstone Park waiting
to rain thunder on the last of us.
Pray for us, Our Lady of Polaris.
Our Lady of the Sleek Skidoo.
Our Lady of Destruction Everywhere
Our bones were ground into fertilizer
for the worn-out eastern earth.
Our bones were burned to charcoal
to process sugar and to make glue
for the shoe soles of your nuns and priests.
Our Lady of the Testicle Tobacco Pouch
Our Lady of the Box Cars of Skulls,
pray for us whose bones have nourished
the ordered cornfields that have replaced
the random grass
which fed and nurtured and gave us life.
Rez Litany
Let us now pray to those beatified
within the Holy Colonial church
beginning with Saint Assimilus,
patron of residential and of government
boarding schools, whose skin was dark
but who miraculously bled white milk
for all to drink.
To cure the gut aches that resulted
as ninety percent of Native children are
lactose intolerant, let us now pray to the
patron saint of the Indian Health Service,
who is also guardian of slot machines,
Our Lady of Luck, she who carries
in one hand mistaken blood tests and botched
surgeries and in the other hand the heart
of a courageous doctor squeezed dry.
Let us pray for the sacred hearts of all good doctors
and nurses, whose tasks are manifold and made more difficult
by the twin saints of commodity food,
Saint Bloatinus and Saint Cholestrus,
who were martyred at the stake of body fat
and who preside now in heaven
at the gates of the Grand Casino Buffet.
Saint Macaronia and Saint Diabeta, hear our prayer.
It is terrible to be diminished toe by toe.
Good Saint Pyromane,
Enemy of the BIA,
Deliver us from those who seek to bury us
in files and triplicate documents and directives.
Saint Quantum, Martyr of Blood
and Holy Protector of the Tribal Rolls,
assist us in the final shredding which shall proceed
on the Day of Judgment so we may all rain down
in a blizzard of bum pull tabs
and unchosen lottery tickets, which represent
the souls of the faithfully departed
in your name.
Your name written in the original fire
we mistook so long ago for trader’s rum.
Pray for us, all you saints of white port
four roses old granddad and night train.
Good Saint Bingeous who fell asleep upside down on the cross
and rose on the third day without even knowing he had
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