Song for the Poor in Spirit

My brother in hair dreaded by despair and lack
Of food or love, crosses the street,
Against the light. We wait.
And curse and wave because he’s holding time and
we have important work to do.
He’s too familiar; it aches to see and I cut my eyes
With shame.
He was a lover from my early years who loved
To brush my hair,
He was the brother who dreamed of flying
For the navy, for anywhere
Then the favorite uncle who stirred up
Rabbit 's beat-up drama of sacred trickery,
As he cooked eggs for us.
We are each the bearer of the human tale, and
This morning it’s unbearable.
He has daughters and sons, a father and mother.
The light will change.
All fresh bearers of life will come forth as we climb into the sun.
They will.
They will.

c Joy Harjo October 13, 2004

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