Laura Sherry

From “A Town on the River”

THE GROUND under the apple-trees is flat,

Like any other ground.

Louis des Chiens, as he sits in his doorway,

Feels a difference between it and the rest of the garden.

Old Henri des Chiens,

And his Indian wife Evening Sun,

Lie under the apple-trees.

Apple-trees planted by two young gods building a new world.

Old Henri des Chiens,

And his Indian wife Evening Sun,

Lie under the apple-trees—

The new world and the apple-trees

They left in trust to their son.

Louis des Chiens sits restlessly in his doorway,

Watching the neglected trees shrivel and die.

The blood of the half-breed has fought long—

“I am so fatigué,” he mumbles.

The white boys from the village,

Ruthless on sacred ground,

Strip his apple-trees and run away laughing.

They fling at him,

“Dog from a family of dogs!”

Old Louis sees his red ancestors counting with pride

The scalps of white men dangling from their belts.

Old Louis sees his white ancestors tomahawked

Defending white women and little white boys.

Old Louis sits in his doorway and mumbles,

“It is you who are dog—puppy-dog!—

Two—three—four-time puppy-dog.”