Its rough paper felt shaved from ancient trees in

wide lines that gave my young ideas room to roam

On its red cover the chief’s proud profile

inspired me to carefully carve my words with

the sharp lead pencils I rode into prairie grasses

on the bare backs of palominos in the stories I wrote,

into forests where I tread in mythical moccasins

over ancestral footpaths, paddled downstream through

historical amnesia into the genocide of the American Indian

hidden behind the dusty chalk clouds of third grade

and found by chance in a high school library book

at the end of The Trail of Tears



Previous/Next/Social Justice/Home