i’ve walked the streets of new york
in ballet slippers
on the arm of the devil

stood aghast before saint patrick’s cathedral
the bronze door bearing
the cast of my indian grandmother
rebecca weeping at the evil
as it tongued me
while i begged for the sky

tonight
she rises within
the smoke of the sacred fire
whispering
that my ability to survive him
was given to me with my blood
it was given to me along with my name

the fury of the native man
is the finger tip haunting
your amber waves of grain