Issue 2: Larina Warnock

Broken Branches

Sometimes the drums keep me

awake at night, vibrate through

my flesh like spirits pleading

for recognition, lost ancestors

that linger in memory.

I envision my roots

tangled in the calcite of Grandpa’s bones

that crumble with the tale of desertion

and the true surname he forgot to share

with anyone, just a hint that he was born

in a valley on the Great Plains.

It was there that a medicine man

said Grandpa was born at Cherry Creek

beneath the canvas of a covered wagon.

He said that my blood

carried history like thunder. 

Oonchi, 84 and wounded by patterns

of alcoholism and shame, carried

stones in her arms for the ceremony.

She never called me Wasicu, but sent

me to Sundance with a prayer to Wakan Tanka.

I went to the reservation a white woman

guessing, but came away with a hint

of the history, an awareness of why

sometimes the drums keep me.

--Larina Warnock

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