Bull Head's Wife on the 80 Mile Journey to her Wounded Husband who had Just Killed Sitting Bull

BULL HEAD'S WIFE ON THE 80 MILE JOURNEY TO HER WOUNDED HUSBAND WHO HAD JUST KILLED SITTING BULL
by Diane Glancy


They didn't do it themselves.
They got us to do it.
They divided us.
My husband, the lieutenant of police, led the group
to Sitting Bull, the hostile. I had to be away. My family
called me to their camp on Cannonball River.
I saw the runner. I knew it was about Bull Head.
I knew my husband was in trouble. But shot? But near death?
I started immediately. The runner already was far ahead.
A coyote walked beside me saying nothing.
I followed an old trail. Twenty miles a day, I suppose.
I slept once in the leaves in a ravine. The clumps of grass
rattled their stories. I dug roots. I ate dried buffalo meat
my sister wrapped in a medicine pouch. I heard my mother's voice.
She spoke my tiredness out of the way. The coyote was
my father's voice saying nothing I could hear. I heard the birds.
They said, go, go, go. They were chirping. The leaves were howling.
The wind was an uncle who said Bull Head would be dead soon.
I had to see him. I had to tell him he'd been a good husband.
He had to know that for his trip through the stars.
We'd betrayed our own people. He would know that soon.
It was something I didn't tell him.
We had our different ways to see.


Diane Glancy