Moccasins

Slipping them on my feet, I am
transformed to other,
Native girl stealthily tracking
game in the forest of my backyard.
Not a leaf crackles under my steps
as my hair grows long and
dark and braided, bright
beads and feathers whispering
so that only my ears hear,
dark eyes studying shadows and
bent twigs for sign,
buckskin sliding silkily over my
dusky warm skin.
Invisibly content, I listen reverently to
the Great Spirit sing gently
in the wind, and carefully ignore
the faint shrill voice of that
white woman who thinks
she is my mother, calling me
in to lunch.
(Posted for Poetry Potluck 47, "History and Stories", 8/7/11)