Market Forces

The Plains tribes’ reverence for the bison peaked
when men on horses came with far too many guns,
erupting like a bad dream from the east.

The dances didn’t work the way they used to.

Crack shots climbed the piled bison skulls
and wondered when the thunderous train
would breathe some life into this wasteland.

There was no arguing whose faith was coming through,
whose gods were helping whom.

In tepees weathered shamans prayed and fasted,
and their visions came so clearly and without delay
there was no way they could have claimed the future
wasn’t rigged, predictable, and doomed.

The warriors smeared war paint on regardless,

and the chiefs occasionally made trips
to Washington, where it was obvious
what they were up against and would be forced
to yield to when diplomacy was over
and the reservations were delineated
on the maps that took up whole walls in the war rooms.

Returning via stagecoach to the Plains,
the chiefs moped, faces drawn like bison,
as demand for everything continued
to outstrip the limited supply.