hands on the wheel
to window rock,
i watch the red sandstone cliffs
and i imagine our world under water.
iodine tells us Navajoland was
once covered by a vast deep blue sea.
i watch the cliffs and i imagine
octopi darting about,
suckered tentacles sticking to
red rocks.
i look up into the wide turquoise
sky and i try to imagine water miles high.
fort defiance, with the school zone
lights that flash hour after hour.
...thought those were only supposed
to come on when kids are out & about.
i slow to fifteen anyway, even
though there isn't a child in sight.
i sit at the junction with my blinker
blinking, blinking, blinking.
and i read about so & so that's
going to do such & such to someone else.
spraypaint screams from our children,
"listen to me. i have something to say."
left turn towards our nation's capital,
i look at the thriftway on the
left,
with plastic bags partially imbedded
into a furrowed parking lot
and a public restroom that rarely
works.
around and up the hill. red,
white & blue flutter in the wind.
just a quick glance, afraid to
peel my eyes off the road with lines so faded
& covered with dried mud that
one could argue if they were ever even painted on at all.
...and our tribal leaders are having
lunch at the inn.
...and everybody is looking at
everyone without actually looking at anyone,
with secret handshakes, covert
games, and smiles that aren't really smiles.
when i speak, i wonder,
do they think i'm playing their
game?
do they think my words are encoded
& encrypted with information that will "bring them down"?
...and i wonder if they're trying
to send me a secret message,
but i'm just too window-rock-illiterate
to comprehend.
i smile at someone, and watch them
searching their memory banks...
"friend or foe, friend or foe?"
"which office do they come from?"
"does this person owe me a favor?"
a painted navajo geisha teeters
by on someone's arm,
with layers & layers of lipstick
red,
& white foundation that ends
at the neck & reveals the true skin brown.
a fragile tower of hairspray, heels
and polyester jacquard.
"$&X-a-taries" i heard a council
delegate once say.
this is our capital, are these are
our leaders?
talking, whispering & furtively
glancing.
laughing boastful loud frybread
belly laughs in western shirts and cowboy boots.
and the room reeks of old spice
and mutton grease.
...and i wonder if these leaders
were once little children
with humble dreams to better our
nation & lead our people strong into the twenty-first century.
...and i try to imagine them saying
those words, thinking those thoughts.
...and then i wonder when that
ancient ocean of hope dried up. |
