Soul Stance River - 17
Tonight a Buffalo Hunt dance is being performed with the utmost gravitas,
its February and food supplies are grievously low,
inside the massive hide lodge a fire more intense than a woman's fury
is burning like a waterfall pouring into the wound of heaven itself,
we've all smoked ourselves into stardom and have eaten of the sacred root,
the most precious maidens of the tribe stand against the circular walls
feathers and ritual paint on their naked treasures,
rattles begin the shake of spirit nerves, slowly, regularly, hissingly,
a child of 6 years starts to skip around the fire
left arm out towards the flames, laughing at the danger,
round he goes 12 times, tossing a raven's feather into the fire as he exits,
tambourines and drums thump and chime to the strenuous yet agile dance
of the most decorated warrior who has cut off all his hair
throwing it into the agitated flames
while seatd warriors throw pine cones into the fire,
the music beats up and down the spine, I feel it in my stomach,
now the maidens, one after another go round the hungry fire
one time each, they spill birthing blood onto the perimeter of the fire
as an offering and proceed to give themselves, completely, to a tribal Elder,
the buffalo must come near now,
J.A.B.
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