Immediately after the two brothers entered The Seafood Shoppe with their wide-eyed wives and extra-brown complexioned stepchildren, the shrimp scampi sauce suddenly altered its taste to bitter dishsoap. It took a moment to realize the notorious twosome were "carrying" medicines, and that I was most likely the next target in the supernatural shooting gallery. It was yet another stab at my precious shadow, ne no ke we ni, the one who always Stands First, wildly unafraid but vulnerable. This placement of time, this chance meeting at Long John Silver's had already been discussed over the burning flower clusters, approved, and scheduled for a divine assassination. What an ideal place to invisibly send forth a petraglyph thorn to the sensitive and unsuspecting instep I thought. Out of fear I had to spit out the masticated crustacean into the folded Dutch bandana. I signalled Selene with my eyes: something is terribly wrong here. Even in the old stories, ke ta-a ji mo na ni, my grandmother recited there was always disagreement, jealousy, and animosity between supernatural deities. That actuality for humans, me to se na ni wa ki, however was everpresent. It didn't conclude as an impasse that gave us the weather, the four seasons, the stars, sun, and moon. Everything that was held together. Unfortunately, there could only be one re-creation of earth. If it was requested in the aura of the blue flower that I die, the aura would make sure I die. . . Later, the invisible thorn--when removed by resident-physicians (paying back their medical loans)--would transform into some unidentifiable protoplasm and continue to hide in the more sensitive, cancer-attracting parts of the fish- eater. In the mythical darkness that would follow the stories the luminescent mantle of the kerosene lamp would aptly remind me of stars who cooled down in pre-arranged peace--to quietly wait and glow.
For You, a Handful of the Greatest Gift
Small-eyed, plump, and with black
leathery hands, Attaskwa, is composed
as it perches on trampled cat tail reeds
beside a quivering, cloud-reflecting pond.
with cosmogony, he’s exceedingly
unselfish,” instructs the branch-shaping
“Wabami, Look at him, kekenetama,
he knows. And he’s elated to oversee
the daylight brings everyday.”
We focus the camera’s telephoto lens
details of his coat glittering with drops
of luminescent water.
“To our Grandfather, Kemettoemenana,”
narrates the sculpture, “he magnanimously
the Last Conflict of the Gods to retrieve
a handful of soil from the deep, singular
became land beneath our feet. He
set forth unequivocally a doctrine.
very closely, my grandchildren,
nottisemetike, for you may not hear
again.” Lifting its black nose
to the sky, Attaskwa ambles
to the pond’s
edge and stops as if to pose
before the picture is snapped.
the sculptor crafts a small
dome-shaped skeletal lodge
embeds it to the ground.
We wholly agree that each day
there are overt and minute changes.
Even if we
don’t see or if we’re not there, it happens.
Without Muskrat, our Creation—you
would be zero. From the alluvial soil
delivered from oceanic depths, we
thereafter. His courage is brazen like
that of a Wetase, Veteran, because he
unflinchingly to retrieve Earth.
Oblivious of our presence, Attaskwa
slides into the pond and swims
to the middle,
creating a cape-like effect of waves
behind him that dissipates
the blue sky
and its clouds. Indicative of his
sacrifice, we learn Attaskwa floated
to the surface. In gratitude Earth-maker
resurrected him. So when personal
are contemplated, ask yourself,
my daughter and son, what did I
Think specifically of what he did.
Use him, my children, netabenoemetike,
as an example
of what must be done to rectify
society’s misdirection. Only then
language, religion, culture, and history
thrive in the Muskrat’s benevolent
As he approaches the mound
of his home, Attaskwa looks back
at us briefly.
And before his cape of waves reaches
the shoreline, he dives into the dark
Before we pack up the equipment,
the sculptor hands us sacred
to sprinkle delicately over
the water animal’s architectural