DEER DANCE TAOS PUEBLO
A Pueblo woman stretches her hand
from the circle to skins draped
on dancers as they pass by, her
gnarled fingers stroking wet musky
fur of fresh antelope and deer.
Each time she reaches past my shoulder
I feel my grandmother’s swollen fingers
in my waist-length hair, twisting
it high on my head in summer,
sunburned ends red against
winter black strands, or when
sun dipped to the bay's horizon,
Ordelia at the dining room window
starching white blouses till cotton
scratched like sand of July beaches.
It's the movement of her hands braided
with the rhythm of this Christmas day,
the dance of old hands as they reach
into dark hair and fresh skin.
Appeared in Caprice
and the anthology They Recommend This Place
