" Turquoise"
These woods are littered with Indian relics,
arrowheads, sun-blanched skulls, gifts to ghosts
revered as if human. I've seen ferny shadows
dance. Roots trip me on my walks
past foundations where the trapper kept
a dark-eyed woman for his own.
She cost next to nothing, the tribe glad
to be rid of her. Pretty ones could be
bartered or sold, the crazy and plain, broken
like a wild horse. Never tamed.
You warn me about bears. You say
they are the ones from whom I will need
protection. You buy me turquoise and string
beads through my unruly hair. You place
a turquoise stone in each pocket and send me
down the path. In autumn I hear a woman
weeping and tell myself it is the wind
skittering leaves. In winter ice storms bend
willows and saplings, the tinkling of berries
and hail muffles brittle laughter. I peer into
the broken pane of a root cellar where a miner
lodged. The somber brown eyes of bears
watch me as I gather sticks to make
a fire for her cold hands.
I call to the woma--I am
trespassing again. I offer turquoise
beads, silver, and a tangled dark
rope of frozen brown hair.
© 2005 Laurie Byro br>
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