I would steal horses
for you, if there were any left,
give a dozen of the best
to your father, the auto mechanic
in the small town where you were born
and where he will die in the dark.
I am afraid of his hands, which have
rebuilt more of the small parts
of this world than I ever will.
I would offer my sovereignty, take
every promise as your final lie, the last
point before we start refusing the exact.
I would wrap us both in old blankets
hold every disease tight against our skin.
I open the door
(this Indian girl writes that her brother tried to hang himself
with a belt just two weeks after her other brother did hang himself
and this Indian man tells us that, back in boarding school, five priests
took him into a back room and raped him repeatedly
and this homeless Indian woman begs for quarters, and when I ask
her about the tribe, she says she's horny and bends over in front of me