It is difficult, he said, to go on,
and where am I going?
It did not snow here much.
He was here a month ago: the drunk
Yakima man in Toppenish
in the gas station off the highway
wetting paper towels
to run through his blood-soaked hair.
He did not see this
in Seattle, named for Sealth, who said,
Our ghosts will return
to drive you off this land that is no one’s
now. You will never be rid of us:
There is no death, only a change of worlds.
Come home, she said, when you can,
we will make a baby.
(16 November 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander