Part Nez Perce

A hard laugh, a piece of shaken anger,
a bitter leaf falls from the trees beside
his graying stone. It’s marked with a rusted sign,
JOSEPH, CHIEF OF THE NEZ PERCE TRIBE,
and paid for by the town’s civic league.
In August, there’s a rodeo and parade.
Chief Joseph Days. The church women’s
club constructs a float. JESUS SAVES
in papier mache, JOSEPH BAPTIST CHURCH
along the rear. My father gets to preach
at the Cowboy Service every other year.
And then the rodeo, and beer, and fireworks
set to prerecorded warrior chants
between the flashes, anthems, marches, hymns.

Eighth Nez Perce, sixteenth — I’m not sure
where my blood and blood divide, yet he
runs faintly in my veins. And when at midnight
the drunken ranchers sleep beside their wives,
I also stake a claim, sneaking to his stone
and smoothing my finger along the silent name.