Hashi mi Mali

Hashi mi Mali


I
Each morning, Hashi, the stark red creator rises,
swelling,
she passes over the ground,
spilling a drop or two of her blood
which grows the corn and the people.
Okla are we.
Naked, she goes down on us,
her flaming hair burns us brown.
Finally in the month of Tek Inhashi,
the Sun of Women,
when we are navel deep in red sumac,
we cut the leaves and smoke to her success.
Sing her praises.
Hashi won't forget.

II
When Ohoyo Ikbi pulled
freshly made Chanta Okla
our of her red thighs,
we were very wet, so
one-by-one
she stacked us
on the mound,
and Hashi kissed our
bodies with her morning lips
and painted out faces with afternoon fire;
and in the month of Hash Hoponi,
the Sun of Cooking,
we were made.

III
It is said that
once-a-month warriors can kill a thing with a spit.
So when the soldiers came
our mothers stood on top of the
ramparts and made the Taska call,
urging their men on.
Whirling their tongues and hatchets in rhythm,
they pulled red water and fire from their bodies
and covered their chests
with bullet-proof blood.
When it was over, they made a fire bed
on the prairie that blew across the people
like a storm;
melded our souls with iron.

IIII
And in the month of Hash Mali,
the Sun of Wind,
we listened for the voices
that still urge us on
at sunrise.


LeAnne Howe