Beautiful River

Now as Indian summer ends, cut-out red
Men feast with Pilgrims, on construction paper.
Leaves bum. Once we dreamed how wild Indians left
Words like Ohio

Behind, for us to live with—like the mythic
"Indian grandmother" in our family
Tree, giving us, commoners, some claim to a
Noble provenance.

The ancestors slept. Around bedtime, questions
Vexed me, vexing my mother: Pilgrims in our
Family? No, we're from Kansas. Your grandpa's—
Your dad remembers—

Who we were, are, a story's pieces.... Prayers
As the story's done. Meaning to sleep, heedful
As crickets stayed up late, I would lay me down—
I am not drowning.

 

Poems by Jamie Irons: