DAW E S R O L L , 1 8 9 8 P O E T RY
Meli ss a Wab nit z P um ay u g ra Everyone wants to be Indian red, stoic, somehow innately mystical, free dental care, casino checks, wisdom, or so says a rumor in the wind. White ladies wait with bated breath to identify spittles of saliva, genetics. But it won’t change a singular headline, or rewrite reservation statistics. Where are all these people? Stolen, lost, murdered? Ancestry is a box on a college application, an HR afterthought. Will you wake up one morning and greet the day with a rain dance, or knowledge of the setting sun? Though the Earth grew on the turtle’s back, my spine grows crooked, worn with single parenthood, our family claims fractions of Indian blood. Thick with superstition, maybe we should just burn some imported white sage and call it a ceremony. Let me tell you about loss. Let me share the names of the children, sprinkled tombs, dug too shallow, I am weeping. 50
