Feathers

© John Blackhawk

Hyenas patrolled her kitchen in packs
last year. Dogged her dirty days.
She'd nearly got the hang of balancing on the tightrope
between her devils and her hard place bed.
As if she were Mata Hari seducing marines at the My Lai massacre.
Exposed for too long in the glare and the dark. But then
it takes an eternity to conclude any bargain in the east.

She comes to me a raging paradox
In cocktail dress and bushman's boots.
She comes in ripped up jeans and stilletos.
She has three feathers in her hair.
Asks will I still explore her when she's old.

Feathers can write stories scandal and prophecy
or take eagles up or whisper prayers above Ojibwa graves.
But they speak nothing of this future.