dance now as the sun sets over
a shroud of fog, for
we are already dead
these bodies merely flesh memories
cloth and hide hanging on skeletons
like shadows, like the standing
sunbleached men in their
cornfields, where birds
and buffalo used to feed freely
dance with me now
in the warm ashes of a fire big enough
to consume us all
sweet-smelling of grass and rot
we are become demons
wind carries us faster than
any arrow, to the homes and camps
of our enemy, and we
cannot be caught
though the body may perish
though bullets shatter living bone
though we die like crows
broken, limbs still flapping
spirits now, we cannot be destroyed
or conquered so easily
we will dance light-footed on their
grandchildren’s graves.
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