It's hard you know without the buffalo, <br />the shaman, the arrow, <br />but my father went out each day to hunt <br />as though he had them. <br />He worked in the stockyards. <br />All his life he brought us meat. <br />No one marked his first kill, <br />no one sang his buffalo song. <br />Without a vision he had migrated to the city <br />and went to work in the packing house. <br />When he brought home his horns and hides <br />my mother said <br />get rid of them. <br />I remember the animal tracks of his car <br />out the drive in snow and mud, <br />the aerial on his old car waving <br />like a bow string. <br />I remember the silence of his lost power, <br />the red buffalo painted on his chest. <br />Oh, I couldn't see it <br />but it was there, and in the night I heard <br />his buffalo grunts like a snore. <br /> <br /> <br />>>Diane Glancy <br /> <br />-only submitted to this site by<br /><br />Shadigo Claws<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/without-title-for-my-father-who-lived-without-ceremony/
