Three sisters
Sit in judgment-
Darkly, mutely on the mesa,
Apportioned their appointed part
In the cosmic monotony.
.
A man is shot dead
On ancestral lands (now
“Ran” by the national park
service) praying to
The four directions, hand
On his chest & over
The heart. Belligerent
At the command to leave,
Maybe, but O,
Why not?
.
Three sisters
Their anger ancient,
Volcanic, a memory of heat,
Magma, and unearthly desire.
The ground around
Is soaked in blood, but
Who owes who?
And what?
.
Cacti grow
In the cracks
Of black rocks,
Spray bright red flowers
To the sky
In a flood of camaraderie
With the dead, gone.
Nick DePascal is a poet and high school teacher in Albuquerque.