He entered the sacred ground

Through the weather-beaten arch

And wandered among the graves

With native trinkets of plastic and

Tobacco at the feet of the chipped

Paint crosses.

 

He walked back through the arch

To the back of the pick up truck

With the tailgate transformed into

A communion table. He got into

Line and soon consumed the broken

Body and spilled blood of Jesus

 

In a Graham cracker and orange juice.

He walked over to the edge and stood

In the shadow of death in the valley of

Wounded Knee.  He stood perfectly

Still and completely quiet and heard

The heart piercing cries

 

And screams like arrows shot out of

The mouths of old men, women and

Children.  The summer sun beat down

On his head, but he felt the winter wind

Whip the snow around his feet.  He saw the

Rifle placed in the dead

 

Old man’s frozen hand and he wept.