The Captive
These are not my people. Their eyes pierce
like owls hunting mice, but they do not see.
They do not hunt well. We have no skins
for making soft garments or safe shelters.
In their wooden lodges and close clothing
I am like a hobbled horse in a box canyon
that has no way out.
I have cut my hair and torn my dress,
made offerings of fire, tears, and blood.
When I run away to find my relatives
the bearded ones bring me back.
Their women whip my little one
for speaking in our way. We do not
hit our babies. These are not my people.
Their hard voices hurt my ears. Out there
beyond the barrier, light lives. A slice
of sky weeps to be let in. Brother wind
tells grasses when to bend. Crickets chirp,
and Trickster goes about his mischief, sits
on his haunches to howl in the dawn.
These are the things my people hear.
Comanches sing to the spirits and stars.
We know which waters are sweet,
where the turnips grow, how to make
good medicine. Our eyes read the prairie
but do not pry in camp. These take
without asking, look at what is not theirs
to know. These will never be my people.
© Lyn Messersmith 3/2002
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