Hold, Puuku
by J.D.B. Elm
"Furthermore, it would be beyond the capability of any modern researcher to properly present the great and adventuresome Comanches of the past...The researcher would also have to record that first Comanche who forked his limbs around a snorting, quivering mass of living horseflesh, thereby starting the movement that transformed the Comanches into a powerful horse people."— Francis "Joe A." Attocknie, The Life of Ten Bears
Hold, puuku. Heed these hands
That smooth flat the fur of your flank.
Heed the heat, the pressure of these palms,
The strings of these fingers: they are strong like you.
I will steal you home. Your stalwart feet
Will stamp grass in strangers' grounds,
Will thunder through prairies, will trample the pathways
Of stone-road towns. The rushing of rivers
Will splash up around us; their spray in the sun-glance
Will glass-gild us. We will ride after game
With thunder-rumbling to rival the rumor
Of running bison. You will bring me to butcher them.
Fine fur and hide, and flesh for feasting—
We will haul them together, galloping homewards.
Hold, puuku. Heed these words:
For the lance-armed warrior you will win war-glory,
And will lift up the lame, and make them lethal,
The length of your leap like a wind delivering
Swift-winged stings, and the swing of the war-club.
The aim of the arrow, the air ringing
With the bent bowstring, you will bring into battle.
Wealth you will win, worthy raid-hoard
For the wakeful-sinewed, the well-thewed foe-hewer.
My sons and your sons will stumble together
As they learn to stand, as their legs struggle
And hobble forwards. They will fall together,
And cry together, and come to standing
Again together. Their gait together
Will lengthen and strengthen, and strong before long
They will fare forth together, and follow their fathers.
Hold, puuku. Heed this heart.
When life leaves us— whether treacherous lance-tip
Or errant arrow should find its entry
In battle's quickness, and we quit the bone-house—
Whether we alone, or with flurry of lance-shields
Fall together, in a feast for the war-gull
And the wily eye-juggler— whether wicked witch-work
Or clutching blood-cough— when this body is breathless
And these eyes clay-blinded and cold in the earth-grip—
Whether soon or late, in the land of souls
Beyond sun's setting, we will sojourn together.