Hays

Hays


by Kathy Kopp
Monday, January 06, 2003

Summers on an Indian reservation, 1979-1981.


Here at Fort Belknap I barrel-race ponies
to kill time. “Fat Witch” figure eights
around the barrels when I lean just right.

Not friendly, she bolts for the barn
I can’t hold the reins . . . I let go
take what comes. Abrupt halt at the barn
propels me flying to harsh dirt, jagged rocks.

Wrapped in blankets I quiver
not tracking an old western
on the Havre outdoor screen.

True Indians call me “white girl.”
Teenagers find this a good joke
coming on to me.

Power flows in the young men
their faces like stone
eyes never meeting mine.
What do they conceal?

In Hays time is immaterial. Up early
with green tea I catch sight out the window —

Frank Tallman a young Assiniboine
riding full speed at dawn warrior-like
wearing nothing but cut-offs
his long black hair blowing fierce
as the stallion’s mane and tail.

The Tallman boy went drinking, speeding . . .
his blood smeared dark on highway pavement
. . . never to ride again.



Kathy Kopp