My Dad, in America

Your hand on my jaw

              but gently

and that picture of you

punching through snow

              to bring two deer, a gopher,

and a magpie

to the old Highwalker woman

who spoke only Cheyenne

              and traced our footprints

on leather she later chewed to soften.

              We need to know in America there is still blood

for forgiveness.

Dead things for the new day.