In 1987, when I walked home after working the graveyard shift at that Seattle sandwich shop and convenience store, I'd pass by Calvary Cemetery. That's when I learned the real difference between city Indians and reservation Indians. On the rez, my grandparents are buried a mile from where I lived. But, in 1987, in Seattle, I daily walked past 50,000 graves of strangers and I was lonelier than I've ever been, before or since.
What little I’ve learned about Native American history, I’ve learned from writers such as yourself. Appalled to realize I was never taught anything in the public American Education System . No educator was there to draw the line between myth and history. Writers became the teachers. With humor , fiction, nonfiction or poetry, my eyes are wide open now. I thank you for that.
Your poem ; truth and sorrow bound together.
There is a cemetery here in Santa Cruz, that is situated in such a way, that many little grey deer come out of the surrounding trees and meander about munching grass from around the headstones. There is also a large community of ridiculous looking wild turkeys strutting across the graves. It feels like the spirits of the dead are present in these two groups of totem animals. I often wonder which animal my spirit would inhabit. Not quite so forlorn as the cemetery you describe. A beautiful, sensitive poem, Sherman.