Dancing Yellow Thunder
A shove-off! Creaking clumsily on one foot, followed haphazardly by the other, hang- ing in time, your hips swinging, staggering to a silence that reverberated through the hall. Your forehead gleaming with sweat, mouth dry, parched, dancing differently than what fell from elders’ mouths. Your soft, worn hands grasp- ing for the receiving hands of a(n) (inviting) partner, the lush manes of mares absent so the wind obliges, whirling you around, until you lie splayed on the legion floor. This is no Sun dance, but you tap your toes in time with the “tsk-tsks,” thrust into a dance from oblivion, a void with no history; another Indian emerging from the earth, steeped in mutilated self-worth, motivated, they’ll say, by endless, endless thirst. Next time, I will dance with you, Raymond, and we will stomp our boots so hard we’ll create sparks that rise to the heavens, that call forth clouds and yellow thunder, and we will watch as they do the electric boogaloo, the smell of singed hair filling the hall.