Powwow Now

poem

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On the phone, my uncle asks me
when I'm finally going to heed

the call of the drum, dress 
in my father's regalia,

and dance powwow. I laugh
and say that I'd have to get

my sisters to run a year-long
boot camp for me to find

my long-lost rhythm.
And my uncle says

that he's 84
and I better start sooner

than later. My wife, being
Indian, knows what my uncle

and I are talking about
even though she can only hear

my half of the conversation.
She smiles, points at me,

and nods her head.
O, we Indians are beautiful
 
and live almost halfway
to pure because we want

every Indian to dance
even when they're not

sure if they'll ever take
the challenge and chance.

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