National Poetry Month Day 13: Sy Hoahwah

Canton

           We know how it goes, death with its family reunions and cobb salad. Its deviled eggs and 

the iced tea that sparks wherever it spills. Its peach cobbler and the chewed fingernail that’s 

eventually found in it. 

            The parked cars in the driveway with all kinds of different tribal license plates. An eagle 

feather hanging from the rearview mirror in every single vehicle. The eagle wing where all these 

feathers come from. 

           The grandfather who brought the eagle wing down from Wind River. His house with an 

extra bedroom and a floor full of peyote buttons. His collection of cowboy hats hangs on the 

wall. 

           The cousins playing cards or dominoes. Their quiet girlfriends, the cold northern 

reservations they come from. The dead-star lit sage. The moon and its butcher ice smile. 

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Author photo courtesy of author