WEBVTT

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This next work,
The Music We Dance

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To has a number of elegies
in it for my father.

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And I'm going to read this
one because I always--

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one of the first
poems I wrote, that I

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remember being happy with,
was a Father's Day present.

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It was one of those
school assignments.

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And usually, Father's
Day is missed

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because it's after the
school year has ended.

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But for some reason,
we had a teacher

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who wanted us to make
Father's Day cards.

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So I was quite
pleased with myself

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when I made this poem that
went, "Bison is a buffalo.

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Bully is his name.

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Bully gallops up and
snorts, Happy Father's Day."

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[LAUGHTER]

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And my father, who
was a painter, one

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of the first
paintings he ever did

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was of an Indian and a buffalo
from one of my kids' books.

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So in this poem, I'm always
happy because it's, in a way,

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as if I still have
that childhood

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home, even though the poem says
absolutely nothing about it.

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"Great Circle."

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"As he aged into
impassive calm, strangers

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thought my father was a Navajo.

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But as a child, I
knew he was a buffalo.

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That beast, with
its puzzled stare,

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bred back from the
edge of extinction,

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ruminating among the repetitive
flowers, his shoulders

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beginning to slump
from emphysema,

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like and unlike a
calf's emerging hump.

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The great circle, my
picture book called it,

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on one side of the page, an
Indian, black brains flying

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behind him, bow and arrow
in hand, urged his pinto on.

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On the other, a single buffalo,
the muscles beneath his thick

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hide rippling in a
stampede of alarm.

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Cracking the book's spine
as he flattened the pages,

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my father drew a grid over
the Indian and the buffalo,

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then enlarged each section
onto whitewashed Masonite.

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Painting for the first time,
he was an ancient cartographer

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who, mapping around
Earth on a flat surface,

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blurs the outlines
of separate things.

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The man's face smudged into
sky, the curly hump extending

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too far down the buffalo's right
foreleg, dissolving into grass.

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What he caught
exactly was the wound.

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The blood seeping
around the arrow

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in the bison's flank,
as vivid and as distant

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as the scar on my father's back.

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Long before my birth,
someone tried to rob him.

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He walked home with
a knife in his torso,

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but only knew it when he
glimpsed the shaft embedded

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in the mirror.

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What did I know of my father?

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His pain lived at
such a distance.

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It was an imaginary line
that, circling the globe,

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dissected the Earth into halves.

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While he brooded at the window,
his black moon and injured bull

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haunting the edge of his
herd, I circled the house

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with war crimes.

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Pretending to be in Indian,
I thought we were opposed.

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But now, only this painting
remains of my father.

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I see, in the great circle of
the Indian and the buffalo,

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the way in which my father and
I were divided and are one."

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