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.