After Survival
Truth
resides in their universe –
and canonical precedents.
I’m with out.
In mine, the gritty cut
of obstinance –
bitter, wakeful distrust
poking hollows in murk.
I walk a century of others –
perpetual visitant of the land.
I am witch without medicine.
I dream with no tongue.
Is this contentment?
I was impatient once.
Right –
without proof.
Or numbness?
Survival is the strategy of the patient –
also the timorous.
Tell me Black Elk,
did your dream bear deliverance unto your children?
Must I hazard evisceration?
Apprise them –
my untruths?
My children
should not survive!
They should walk this earth
– equal!
Photograph by Sven Schlager