Existential Rhythms
The question first occurred to me when I was maybe four,
playing toy Injuns on our Diné hogan floor.
"Momma, how did we get here? I don't understand."
She said to talk to Wolf-eye Joe, the village med'cine man.
But Wolf-eye's stories cannot be:
I laughed until I cried.
In later years I wandered off to Flagstaff on a whim,
and asked a pale-face friend named Bob what tales were told to him.
The white man's magic litany of woe and ancient grace
looked a lot like wishful thought, I told Bob to his face.
And he took up my search with me:
We laughed, we thought we'd die.
So Bob and I made steep ascent up yonder distant slope,
and happened by the real old guy who works the telescope.
He let us look eons away, to every time and whence.
"That's what you be," says he and we've been scared stiff ever since.
But there's no going back, you see:
We laughed until we pried.
