Eating Fry-Bread with Paula Gunn Allan
Her poems are tall, strong, sometimes fierce,
So I was surprised to see her
Small, round figure and the smile
That teetered on the brink of laughter.
We sat outside the Blue-Eyed Indian Bookstore,
Run by Leslie's mom,
Displaying Leslie's dad's photographs,
And we talked about Leslie
As we ate Indian Fry-Bread
And watched the sun set.
"This is good," Ken exclaims.
Paula winks at me and shakes her head.
Leave it to the educated white man
To feel a need to put words to the experience
Of having oven-hot fry-bread, melted butter,
Sweet berry jam swirl in the mouth until it becomes
Part of us, tasting history (the bread baked in earthen
ovens
More than a thousand years old,
Fried in black White Man pans,
Jam made by berries picked and mixed by hands
taught
By her mother,
Who was taught by her mother,
Who was taught . . .).
And Ken calls it "good."
Paula and I look at the sun,
Watch as it spreads its crimson and orange fire
Across the horizon,
Mixing colors with the deep earth red of the desert
And the dark grey stone of the mesa.
"Yes," Paula says. "It's good."
For a moment, I understand the poet.
( Finalist in Highline Community College's Writing on the Wall poetry contest (2005), and on permanent display in the HCC Library. Published in "The Spirit of the Horse" and Other Works (2013).
