Donald Whipple Fox

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Thirty-Eight Hearts

Thirty-eight drumbeats thundering in the cold
Thirty-eight breaths of a buffalo bull
Thirty-eight ropes of equal measured length
On a cold December morning while we wait.

Thirty-eight death chants or was that a hymn?
Thirty-eight warriors standing there on some wood
Thirty-eight pairs of hands reaching out for each other
To take away the sin of the world.

Thirty-eight songs by which to remember
Thirty-eight tears held tight in our hearts
Thirty-eight nights of insufferable dark
Breaking our drums, silencing our song.

Many long years of crying in grief
Many long years of denial and blindness
Many long years of numbness and sleep
Without relief, without a memory.

But the Dakota have never forgotten. We have never stopped.
Thirty-eight names read out loud again and again.
Thirty-eight children singing their songs.
Thirty-eight relatives in the midst of our circle.

Chanting again. Loving again. Being again.

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