| OCR Text |
Show Grandpa Bill Old man, your face is the moon, round and rough, red and pocked: blood moon ascendant over autumn dust. Old man, you are nothing with your rusty pickup, shabby sky-blue trailer. On the reservation your shack bleaches and crumbles like the last century's heaps of bone. Your grandchildren play, barefoot and truant in a muddy, unfenced yard. What is it worth, old man- your smoky sweetgrass blessing? The muttered English doesn't fit like the shoes the agency gave out with weevily flour, lard and diseased beef. We have our churches, angular, concrete, shiny with dyed glass and padded seats; more churches than you have gray hairs. And you stand, still by the river, having only your proud, broken voice and this bare ground on which to make your ceremony. (Longest Walk, 1978) |
