19: Abraham Of Paha Sapa

He is shy around the corner. An ethereal officer

does not know what to say to him, captured, stone-faced,

hands behind the mountain.

He was there; this Abraham

signed his name

in graffiti on

manifest destiny; whether involved, he is associated

under the Red Cloud of dawn. He is clear in the photograph;

when the sun strikes his face out in Black Hills as he looks over gifted land,

it hollows him; his inability to blink leaves his soul no room: captured,

he holds his staring voice, from his height asking

who would want to be found in the rubble of anguish,

in the ruin, stoned to death on a mountain;

what human land is not made of this: slaughter and statue; so what of history;

Does living stone not have something to say?

Now legend has it; there is no escape,

just the corner;

still in the room of a much toured mansion: manifest destiny.

Let my people go, cries the rock, a sorry commandment

from the mountain.

His voice so shy, lost in the height. Tourists posing like peacocks

in the golden hour