Arrick
Sitting by the wood stove,
in a small wooden house, dirt floor,
a cold, moonlit winter night
on the high northern desert
overlooking a crevassed wash
covered with sage, juniper,
and pinon pines,
a solar-charged radio performance
of Mozart’s delicious g minor quintet
sweeping away all thoughts
of 20 year-old Arrick’s death
five days ago.
Arrick,
growing seamlessly from boyhood into man,
widely, deeply, and dearly beloved,
with effortless grace
you took on the tasks
that held your family to the land,
and practiced the skills
to keep your nation alive,
sheep healthy,
hogans secure and warm,
language and ceremonies intact,
you defended them,
all the time gripping the hands
of your younger sisters and brother,
a smile on your face,
peace in your heart.
“He was my backbone,”
your mother cried.
Arrick,
free of the male disease,
not a mean spark in your spirit,
now friends and clan are gathering,
stunned,
now a medicine man will put a feather
on your heart, and close the casket,
returning you to the same land
the profit-driven beast
is moving to drive your people from again,
shot by an 18 year-old neighbor,
his family also perched
on the brink of destruction,
a damaged youth,
lusting for violence,
now a murderer.
So sing, Mozart,
let your playful strings sing,
make them laugh and dance teasingly,
shimmer sweetly,
and soar breathlessly,
lifting my spirit
up over the hard rocks
on the desert floor grieving,
sing as if life has meaning,
sing as though all life depended on it,
as if there is a time and place
for such epiphanies,
sing, Mozart, sing to my heart
of life worth living.