End of the Trail
By Kenzie Allen
Mere reproduction, you could carry it with you,
you could carry it in your arms;
small enough— but I crumble,
erode, at its feet.
I grew up on this ground, in my grandmother’s house.
On every surface, a statue. Every wall
with cloth-turbaned chieftains, women gathering water
with babies on their backs,
men on horses who point the way
deep in snow. Like our home was the museum,
On every surface, a statue. Every wall
with cloth-turbaned chieftains, women gathering water
with babies on their backs,
men on horses who point the way
deep in snow. Like our home was the museum,
as though the museum saw you
every which way, at last,
and why not—collect the Russells, Millers, Wyeths, too.
What any of us knew of us
in the what was left.
I ask who got the Remingtons, the replicas,
when she passed.
Just another Indian
slumped on his horse.
As though I could
in more than memory
hold the object aloft,
an urn, trembling,
an urn, trembling,
a photograph you can’t quite make out
like that Bible which has lain beside it
so many years, survived a newer war;
so many years, survived a newer war;
survived the bombs;
but the bombs brought on the flood,
but the bombs brought on the flood,
and now the book of martyrs is water-stained;
speaking only through the edges’
speaking only through the edges’
marginalia. Everyone did that
in those days—I’m told,
in those days—I’m told,
you hold the object aloft. You ask.
No stories issue forth.
In those years of quiet,
nothing but the archives;
no childhood photographs, no language
tucked in the corner of the page—
he is only catching his breath,
he’ll live past them all,
he is, after all,
made of stone.
End or enduring?
Wish I could tell you—
Wish I could tell you—
—this particular silhouette,
a bronze greening over years—
a bronze greening over years—
the placard is so small.
No explanation fits.
No firmer ground
sculpted in the corners.
No explanation fits.
No firmer ground
sculpted in the corners.
In the great leather armchair that was her throne,
she’d point out every tilted frame, tell me:
The Indian in His Solitude
lies crooked.
The Last of the Buffalo,
Last of the Mohicans,
all that last
outlasting us both.
Never forget,
even if you could,
who you are.
Their eyes still watch
from the walls, from the graves.
This is no end.
Sometimes the stories wait for you
to begin.
she’d point out every tilted frame, tell me:
The Indian in His Solitude
lies crooked.
The Last of the Buffalo,
Last of the Mohicans,
all that last
outlasting us both.
Never forget,
even if you could,
who you are.
Their eyes still watch
from the walls, from the graves.
This is no end.
Sometimes the stories wait for you
to begin.
To whom does it belong now,
I ask my mother, who knows the path
every stitch of jewelry has taken,
the Wedgwood, Frankoma, all the little statues,
but she doesn’t know where it’s gone,
the delicate copper reins I can still feel
bend beneath my hands,
the perfectly wrought
pistols, horse spines
twisting, hooves
churning
in brilliant motion
like the metal might fair leap
from the plinth.
Source: Poetry (September 2022)