First Word

for Smokey

Suddenly then, tiny worlds collapse on dial tones in a weeping ear.
Out autumn windows, fire-lighted oaks and maples drop no cures.
I pause.
Cancer has wrapped ‘round your spine they fear.
Doctors mutter lymphoma, scribble tumors maybe fewer
in official charts because

they are planning to shoot you up, my brother, zap you
full of that toxic shit, split atom juice.
We should pause.
I can’t see you bending forward praying down the pew.
The bed holds you now, and the meds are loosed
to rattle upstream for the cause,

the source, your body’s genesis sea of rolling pain.
You will sicken still. Your ancestor hair, brave soul, will tumble down.
You will pause.
And then, flapping southward, angels will descend in prairie rain
to beating drums. Warrior souls will rise from sacred mounds
to heaven’s healing applause.