Jack Ross Knutson

Echo from a Visit to Little Bighorn Montana

The late sun of winter arrives out of place
It’s a warm memory of lost childhood
In a stodgy season of cold adulthood
I sit crumpled and serpentine like a spider
Mammoth bones move like a flea on ice
There’s a cup of red blood on my doorstep
A gift of the fatal season 
Where a war whoop whispers in my stone ear
Like an ax at my fingertips
While my stomach crows for one last Ghost Dance
I can hear a cry as old as birth itself
Seething like a wind-chime on windy seas of grass
My heart beats like a trumpet
I feel like a sailor in ruddy solar seas
As my naked feet drag through the hard hilly earth
Married as they are to such a graceful woman 
I leave without song or memory
Except for a hard stony seed buried now
In the yellow-haired intestines of my long crooked soul