Canton
We know how it goes, death with its family reunions and cobb salad. Its deviled eggs and
the iced tea that sparks wherever it spills. Its peach cobbler and the chewed fingernail that’s
eventually found in it.
The parked cars in the driveway with all kinds of different tribal license plates. An eagle
feather hanging from the rearview mirror in every single vehicle. The eagle wing where all these
feathers come from.
The grandfather who brought the eagle wing down from Wind River. His house with an
extra bedroom and a floor full of peyote buttons. His collection of cowboy hats hangs on the
wall.
The cousins playing cards or dominoes. Their quiet girlfriends, the cold northern
reservations they come from. The dead-star lit sage. The moon and its butcher ice smile.
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Author photo courtesy of author
