by Kinsale Drake

                         for Buffy Sainte-Marie


none of my ancestors are on the radio
none of my ancestors are
but my sister refurbished
an 8-track and I want buffy in her

purest form: NDNs huddled in a basement
somewhere, listening to bootlegged
tapes, except the basement’s
not a basement. it’s a truck bed—

(someone’s uncle’s GMC) wheedling
over a lip of river cuz
the best thing about rock n roll is
you don’t have to do anything right

to survive. you don’t even have 
to make sense to a white english
professor who wants chronology
when I want buffy and a truck careening

into the horizon. I want the explosion
as grand as cicadas amping 
out the sound of night as the 8-track
rolls and rolls and buffy 

lives forever instead of on
some balding president’s blacklist,
and through the smoke I almost want
to mistake a splinter of moonlight

for her yellow dress, all the NDNs
dusting themselves off 
and laughing at the smolder,
the little wheel spin and spin
the little wheel spin


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