Battle at Wounded Knee
Derek Hugen, 7-26-04
The Indians are on the television and pause at
commercial breaks. We wait at a crossroads
just before a turn-off at Saint Mary's Road and
bake in the afternoon of Arizona red suns that
ply their trades too close to our weathered
bones. A Teen Challenge white van makes
strange new loops, traveling Tucson like a sick
bird. The segmented train stops us dead in our
tracks, carries off our deep cargo to shores of
little Mexico while somewhere below our big
riverbeds pause from knowing too much water.
History can make us old, as black and white paint
splattered across Picassoid pictures of death saints.
Three more miracles and we will die stapled to
the telephone poles. Grey mixes to the color of
dried blood. If you make a deal with the devil,
remember to carry your gun behind your back.
The A train cuts the straps of Indian tendons
that pull us into the backseats of cars. We dance
non-stop until a long-awaited savior is seen as
he was on TV, comes back again to save our meek.
Our guns are loosed against the first sounds of
boasting. Brisking back alcohol, the devils
sing out names of strip malls so loud that an
angel stumbles back down to the last train
tracks wearing an old army jacket, a bandanna,
and holding the last issue of Grapevine, still
cold off a cold press. A final headline reads,
“Homeless and Needled Drunks Need Never
Vanish.” Black sheep bleat out well-mimicked
train whistle sounds while downtown Tucsonians
wait sleeping in their art galleries for God to come
back soon, step off the Red-Eye from an Old
Testament prophecy. My cat curls into new shapes
on my lap while we wait in the long lines of train
cars like trees passing by our windows, making
sure we can't sleep, shaking up our ant hills and
smiling out loud. Every now and then, a train will
grab one of us and try to fry us under his microscope. | 
