my words are impoverished,
i don’t make cents here
a mouth that has no reason,
has no season
how sad it is that life is bent,
on how well you spoke
a bull’s thistle and a fox’s tail
You had taken your leave when the white man asked You to
You had taken your stance when the white man threatened You to
johnson’s grass and a lady’s thumb
and when their life tipped,
at the end of your rifle
they forgot their words—gook
they forgot their hate—freed
in a morning glory among witch’s grass
the heavens from above see all, she says
21 November 2004
Copyright © 2017 by May Yang. Used with permission of the author.