Pike’s Peak or Bust

never could it happen, the text
explains the ancient paths worn down by
primates,
each to each searching for buffalo.

newbies in their wagons, their
petticoats rolled up like britches,
the swine squealing and running
sideways, dropping their blood
in gallons.

no one sees the natives, arrows barbed
by grudges, religions scalded
by fire.

no one sees the mountains,
waves of grass careening violently in dark
storms, locusts plaguing
tiny children wanting mother’s milk.

their furious arrival slowed by death,
they toss objects overboard: grandma’s
hutch from Baltimore, sister Rosanna’s entire
box of primers, opening to
the rhymes of kindergarten.

sun’s light disappears, a circle
of prayers is said, and eyes stay
open, searching the stars for hope.