by Glen Armstrong

 

I understand that your piece of parchment

is an act of war,

 

that the little sticks you’ve scattered upon it

are a type of language.

 

You would like me to stop attacking forts;

that is the gist of this dirty flag.

 

But tell me, Son of Amherst,

who of your people conceived of this communication

 

broken into little slash marks?

How do your voices reach your gods

 

snapped apart and imprisoned in such a way?

How can they mix with the clouds?

 

We will fight, and I might lose,

but allow me this prophecy:

 

one-hundred years from now

your name will mark a valley of death,

 

a people perpetually mourning.

Your mightiest medicine woman will hide from you,

 

her broken incantations never whispered aloud,

but set like beaver traps

 

that will drive your gifted daughters mad

for countless generations.