After Wounded Knee

You still wear that old war paint
(angry lines slashed above your eyes)
I can feel you waiting for the battle to come
(spikes of red staining your cheeks)
There are no pawing horses now
No painted hands on their haunches
(the number of warrior souls you stole)
No noonday sun beating on bare backs
No smell of sweat and leather and bravery
Puncturing the familiar woodsmoke
(breastplates of porcupine quills, feathers in hair)
No ululations of war, yelling at fear
No singing, no dancing, no tribes, no homes
(scars left from the struggle free from the sun)
Just a drum drum drum beat
(a piece of flesh left for the Great Spirit)
Piercing through dreams.