The Last of the Bisons

A poem

Photo by Bryce Olsen on Unsplash

Every fibre of your being
is the last of the bisons

Every breath
a dark cloud
spread over
quiet nights

He spoke and said
“Show me your vision dances”

Atop obsidian mountains
a pyre of skulls
burning
like biblical brimstone

It’s a dreamscape
a conjuring

Yet it felt
so real
when she cut off her right breast
and spoke
“I am the warrior of the night”

And you
were the one
who bled

Your suffering
ingrained
in ashes
smeared across
the bodies
of broken widows
who swear revenge
on all who did them wrong

But only the caress
of their children will do
And barren widows
bear no kin

The electric poles
looked like crosses
afire

Charred chests
Could not fan the flames
of centuries of oppression

All you have in common
is hatred
infusing it all

Floating over the fields
Roaming the wastes
where they used to hunt
the last of the bisons