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BITTER WORDS
For Lisa

There she was, only twenty, a little lady
with chestnut hair, sauntering past my eyes
and a row of desks, a big, black belt around
her hips, the briefest glance jolts my lightning
crashing; the monsoon drizzles her bitter words

A Navajo poet - or what I imagined was one-
once called her “the petite girl who always wore
the white dress,” a static, thunder-filled dress by
its own merit, but I sing Blackfeet warrior songs
in my urban, desert shower about that cinched belt

Those torrential words! Swarming ubiquitous while
I empathize her life, leafing through courage, finding
similarities which may join us at those hips, drunk on
minute memories we salvage together, intoxicated by
alcohol I will never taste, storming electrical sobriety

A German Pikuni, and an American Jew, I may love
her for that reason alone; So what would Hitler, White
Calf, TR and Ariel Sharon think? Surely,“ why the hell
not?” If only she’d be foolish enough to fall in love with
a man who would give her an oppressed drunk of a child

Then the desert blooms like Browning, Montana,
festive, ripe as Indian Days in summer time, Yet
I’m squalled over by bittersweet rain; longing to be
gripped like her belt. That I could definitely handle!
I would capture those words to a reservation home

We could ride around in my ugly green reservation car
except that the mechanic sold it, because I never paid to
get it from his shop, How embarrassing for her; a raging
tempest speechless! Blushing from white trash indigenous
shame. But, she is accustomed to disappointment anyway

Still, she is endearing: feminist yet fragile, opinionated and
reticent, her words contrasting strength and vulnerability;
this is when she is at her sexy, enthralling best, making me
forget I swore off of white girls, since my friend married
one for a month that did not last until death tore them apart

“You’re too much,” she says. This bad boy who is not one;
her brilliant, acrid words scorching smooth like Thunderbird
Now, I’ll leave where there are no monsoons, tightly cinched
black belts, and the big powwow is over, I’m finished. Bitter.
Raining. Remembering the days I made her bitter words laugh

"You can't Jim Crow a left hook." - Henry Armstrong, only man to hold three world boxing championships simultaneously, Black and Iroquois Indian

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