Wigwam

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
whether Algonquian or Abnaki
Snowcloud-Walks-Best-in-Air
she was scorned in the wigwam
back in rez
when Reagan was the prez
she was cute
to my mother when she was me
to my grandma when she was ma
hating the guts of man
for many rapings and wife-beatings
bulls were drowned in booze
as were the buffalos of this area
much drunk like
Bald-Eagle-I-Can’t-Fly-Anymore
if me feathers and me are cut to zero ground
hell hath no fury like a child scorned
whether Hispano, Hippy (with capital H),
or simply mixed up in the melting pot
of England, Ireland and far-fetched Puerto Rico
you should see me in the air tonight
walking like Snowcloud-Walks-Best-in-Air
taught my grandma, who taught my ma,
who completely forgot
and I had to remember,
by means of pure reminiscense
brilliant white hair becomes us
canyon wrinkles in our faces
in the wigwam
our faces are wigwams
we dare to survive.
Hell hath no fury like us.