The Fieldstone Review

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 
the hall.

Your forehead gleaming with
sweat, mouth dry, parched, dancing
differently than what
fell from

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

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
the hall.