Horse Dance

by

Mark Turcotte

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I do not know where these words come from,
it is the only way I can speak.

Mike Puican

We dream
the pony of Crazy Horse
twisting
in a field
of yellow hair,
its nervous neck
painted with
a hail of stones,

stomp
step step
stomp
step step.

We dream
the pony of Crazy Horse
dancing
in a field
of greasy grass,
polishing its anxious hooves
upon the buttons
of Custer's coat,

stomp
step step
stomp.

We dream
the pony of Crazy Horse
leaping
in a field
of horses grazing,
riderless,
deaf to the distant wail of a widow
crying,
why my Georgie, why my Georgie why,

stomp.

We dream
the pony of Crazy Horse
rising
in a field
of bloodied flowers,
where the horn
of her husband's empty saddle
is still decorated
with the flesh of Lakota women,
that is why my Georgie why

stomp
step step
step step . . .

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From The Feathered Heart, Michigan State University Press.
© 1995 Mark Turcotte

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