Goyahkla,
one who yawns -
you have been following me for twelve years,
since I began writing a poem about you as I started my dating life.
Sex got in the way and I am sorry.
You have been very patient.
I wrote about you on your horse,
as you were heading back to the fort from Lawton,
that final time.
I wrote about you swaying from side to side,
full of liquor and barely staying mounted.
I wrote about you slipping off your steed and into a wet gully -
where your mind began to replay your life as your body suffered in the wet and cold.
I spoke of how your father told you that your feet would always be your friends.
I relayed the loss of your family to the Mexicans,
and how this took you down the war path.
I wrote of how you and your band had to kill your own dogs,
to keep them from barking and alerting soldiers.
I created the image of you and your people -
prisoners of war
arriving in the Territory and
you heard the coyote
knowing you were close to home -
the same sounds I heard as a child.
In this poem,
you weaved in and out of consciousness,
remembering your struggles,
remembering your oppression,
remembering your strength.
I stopped writing somehere here,
I had intended to have a grand ending where you said that you wished you had never quit fighting.
It was a grand ending in my head,
at least.
But,
truthfully -
I abandoned you.
I committed an injustice,
leaving you soaking in that ditch for twelve years.
Yes,
the sex was probably nice -
I can’t really remember her or them or what-have-you.
You were right there waiting,
waiting for me to come back.
I am here -
old friend.
You were with me in my youth,
I saw your image in so many places,
I lived on Apache Street,
I went to visit your grave once,
while back in that hemisphere for a short time.
You tried to stand up to the force of their civilisation,
which was anything but civilised.
You tried to stay true to the ways of your people,
when they tried to change your world.
Perhaps this poem could be subtle and seek words to say what you meant to those who would struggle after you,
Perhaps this poem could make you a prototype -
but I am not going to do that,
One who yawns.
Rest in the peace you deserved in the hills of your birth.
They could keep you from these hills in life,
imprisoned with your people in Oklahoma,
but in death you are now free -
and have made it home.
Lee Sturgis