on strong legs to wounded knee

washing his hands, washington

the blood

refuses to disappear-

making their last stands, indians

laughing at
the idea
of fear

with pick-up trucks, engines on,
parked in a circle, headlights
blaring

for protection

they stormed the museums
to retrieve their relatives'
deceased bodies

arranged in a deranged
collection

titled: native american
something-or-other

my brother etches
a line through the
word 'american'

then loads his gun, then
runs

and runs

on strong legs to wounded knee

as i cry and realize: all my
drinking isn't helping
or solving

anything
actually