when we dismantled the tipi
dust
rested on plants and sitting-logs
thick
and gray
like some hellish frost
come to blight our paradise
dogs were walking powder puffs
of earth’s sloughing off
95% humidity sent sweaty
rivulets
coursing between women’s
breasts
drew
smooth steady patterns
on
kids’ dirty faces
paintings on tipi canvas
looked faded and dull
from six years
of pounding weather
and six weeks of no rain
teenaged son shinnied
up and up
like
some four-legged creature
at
home in his jungle
tugged each lacing pin from its moorings
where canvas was lashed together
some slid out just right
others took yanking, cussing
before they let go
one after another, till all were out
he roared as he grabbed the
top edge
of tired, mildewed canvas
awakened
it from its comfortable resting place
and
with one mighty shove
sent it sliding down slick debarked pine poles
like a giant skirt
slipping slowly, provocatively
around the ankles of a mountain of a
woman
it landed in folds and heaps
on the dry cracked ground
someone beat a drum, someone
cried
someone moaned—I think it was me
dogs
and cats ran
someone
played a flute
someone howled like a wolf
strong-shouldered husband and neighbors
heaved loosely rolled
tipi canvas
to edge of tree-line
seventeen poles stood naked
and strong
skeletal remains of our Brown
County era
they
sprawled in a circle 28 feet wide
leaned
into each other at the conical top
bound together with thick sisal rope
thirty feet above hard clay-packed floor
above plywood platform
where beds had held our family
close to earth’s steady heartbeat
someone played guitar
someone hooted—crazy, insane
like
barred owls carrying on psychotic
conversations
in the dark of the night
someone yip, yip, yipped
like coyotes on prowl
daughter and friend arrived
full of young woman sensuality
began
dancing on plywood platform
pounding
feet drummed steady rhythm
more feet, more drumming
more feet dancing, drumming
hoot, hoot, hooting
kicking up dust
sweating, laughing
crying out for rain
drinking
cheap wine
smoking
last year’s harvest
stomping, thumping
with bare feet, booted feet
on hollow wooden floor
wild and free
caught up in primal celebration
the moving of the lodge
the feasting of the tribe
prayers for rain, rain, rain
distant thunder, was it? did
you hear it?
was that lightning? did you
see it?
thunder
again—closer
we
danced harder, faster
drummed, sang
drummed, danced
rain sprinkled, showered
poured from the skies
mothers and others carried
drums
guitars, babies to nearby
shack—
door and windows swung wide
open
storm-crazed
dancers
undaunted
by nature’s pelting
perpetuated rain-soaked plywood vibration
with unrestrained ecstasy
we slung off dripping clothes
to rhythm of pounding feet
everything
everything
t-shirts, shorts
jeans, skirts
tossed into one colorful
soggy, sloppy heap
naked skin like naked tipi poles
shining wet, clean, cool
thunder boomed
dogs barked, babies cried
we
drummed our moving-on dance
till
slippery plywood threatened to break fragile bones
and massive electric bolts
too close for comfort
shoved us indoors
pounding rain continued to
drum
the rusty metal roof as we
panted
our thanksgiving
and
fed one another
from the multi-purpose
stainless steel dishpan
heaped to overflowing
with July’s ripe, juicy blackberries
Glenda
Breeden
2005
