I’m old enough to mourn more and more old friends who’ve died. I remember the rez buddy who leaned across the powwow picnic table to grab honey for his fry bread then showed me the horsefly and wasp trapped inside the sticky jar. “Man,” he said. “Indians can't have nothing nice.” We laughed. He ate his bread unadorned. I worry that I’ll be the Indian who lives long enough to bury all the Indians he loves. So, Lord, here's my prayer, haphazard and scribbled: Please let me be the Indian who dies somewhere in the middle.
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Unusual wish... must mean a life well lived. I wonder how much peace or pain goes through ones life to get to this conclusion? Beautiful poem, the ordinary, mundane and then bang the philosophy behind it all.