Wooden Duck

Just to think, I may be the first.

I walk through the small iron door,

    small like an Anasazi opening.

There on the stool

    a bearded English man pours sour ale.

The stained glass windows speak a story:

    a running rabbit, a human caterpillar,

    a disappearing cat, and a queen of hearts.

My emotions ebb like those of Alice's, out of place.

Outside the window—

    a green hill supporting Windsor castle.

It stands like an adobe village atop a mesa.

The ground is black soil,

No signs of the red reservation dirt.

A small black bird perches on the wooden sill.

Is it a corn-stealing reservation chicken?

No. It's a Scottish raven, and Indian crow mirage.

No frybread with mutton stew.

I order Yorkshire pudding,

A meat pie.

Around the pub

    spreads the spired city of learning: Oxford.

Like tipis of the annual Crow Fair,

    these colleges choke the town:

Pembroke, Old Crow; St. Peters, Black Eagle; Christ Church,

Red Wolf: Magdalen, Old Coyote . . . . 

Here in the pub

    Queen Elizabeth rules by her crown.

Across the great diving lakes,

Within the sacred mountains,

Grandmother Little Owl weaves her loom.

In this room,

I am the red Columbus.

There are no Indian brothers.

I hear the echo of an eagle,

The sun dance drums,

Whistling Canyons.

But the wailing spirits of Stonehenge

    silence their chants.

I truly am the first Navajo in the Wooden Duck.

Hershman John, I Swallow Turquoise for Courage (2007)