The White Man's Face
by Laura Seargeant
Tuesday, August 13, 2002
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there was an indian in his heart
full of red sunsets and fire dances
black mountains and cold smoke ashes,
yet he wore a white man's face.
he could paint pictures with his tongue -
cragged cliffs, the caged moon, the freedom sun, female rain;
rolling, rolling, rolling off the velvet flesh
until I was there -
amongst the drum beats, the Navajo spirit
seeing through the eyes of an indian heart,
with a white man's wounds.
like a huntress in the night i swallowed
his turquoise god, i spoke to him
in my own tongue -
casting wet trails of wishes laced
with indian kisses,
sending smoke signals with my sighs,
heedless of my white woman ways.
there is an indian in my heart
who crept in on silent feet
and sleeps in silence on this side of the fire.
Who let him in, i wonder,
and why won't he take off his white man's face?