"Private Chant of a Young Apache."
I don't know if this poem is successful or not.
I was trying to imagine what it would
be like to be a young Apache living around here.
And this is what came out.
"Private Chant of the Young Apache."
At night the mountain comes closer,
though the time for visions is gone.
It speaks in the old language that I cannot remember.
What I hear is wind, night birds in the cactus.
Quick breathing from puffed throats of lizards.
The little holy gravel rattling.
My enemy the sun warms the air base,
shows missile silos, glints off cars on Highway 10
like spear points.
My people are dead in the day.
A white girl saw me two times.
I thought she was a God.
But her big eyes were hungry, so I hid.
I will keep my soul.
All the ghost dances failed, and this is white man's desert.
But at night, I am alive.
Coyote is my brother.
I am waiting for the mountain to tell me my name.