Indian CornDead Indians, embalmed with salt from unshed tears,
wait too patiently for the ghost dance drum beat.
I see them huddled in shadows when sun disappears
over the blood stained bluffs, where Custer met defeat.
The keening of slain children are what the wind hears
and amplifies to ripple the stubs of dry land wheat
tamed Sioux politely plant at the Little Big Horn
for baking white man’s bread. Braves, now less despised,
hide two hundred and twenty six scalps and mourn
their dead in secret. Grandsons of those unrecognized,
still plot and plan when drunk on fermented corn,
full revenge for raids Custer considered civilized.
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