After the Red River Indian Wars of the 1870’s—

We sit in your prison at Fort Marion, Lord.

Bishop Whipple stands before us speaking not knowing where we came from.

If he had seen a scalped head.
If he had seen the skinned buffalo.
If he had seen the piles of hides.
If he had heard our cries—

Sometimes I see Whipple as a Holy Man when he turns white as a blizzard.
His words are buffalo on the Plains. They are a blur of whirlwind.

He is fighting for your kingdom, Lord.
His words are a thin trail of water in the Red River in dry weather.
I hear the transfer they make.

Sometimes I see Bishop Whipple in a breech-clot.
His face painted red and black with a stripe across his forehead.

I am lost in the wind, Lord. I am come apart. Take my life.
The ocean is another sky.