in response to visiting the Wounded Knee Memorial on the Pine Ridge Reservation
written April 2024
narrow, dusty paths.
weathered, crooked crosses.
tattered U.S. flags waving in the wind.
fresh flowers on graves older than me.
cars in the distance. faint birdsong.
a tombstone faces away from the path.
it belongs to a veteran,
born in june of 1892—
a year and a half after the massacre—
who fought in the first world war
and died in 1959.
i wonder, who in his family died here
before he had a chance to meet them?
near the cemetery centre, a column stands,
etched with 22 names.
that's not even a tenth of the dead.
a few of these names i know from narratives.
their descendants still live here;
their kin still remembers.
the land still remembers;
their blood imbues the soil beneath my feet.
these hills i'm walking
were the last thing they saw.
pale plants reach my knee.
they don't look like ours back home.
but this is home for those buried here,
now and forever.
i can't imagine the fear they must have felt
running from the cavalry
as they watched everyone they knew fall,
heard bullets soaring through the air,
knew they were next.
knowing their bodies remained here,
unprotected from the elements,
for days after the massacre
makes it all the worse.
i think i can still hear their cries
if only i close my eyes.