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“Were you worth, soldiers, all that people said
To be spent so willingly?”
~Randall Jarrell
The Navajo told of werewolves
around the fires; we did not think
they'd come. We were sleeping
when the raveners stalked the pen
two falls ago and slew the lambs.
One hunter promised us the pelts
of wolf-men to hang in the round-
house, dead-proper coup to count
for what was taken from the tribe.
In the ruck of the broken bighan
he took blood oath to hound them
until reckoning was made.
Now the moon of summer wanes
and a thirsty star, Coyote's raw
eye, haunts the sky above the door.
In our hogans hang odd skins,
ears, teeth; but the trophies sworn
cannot be found. Instead, in corral
squats the spike-mouthed belly
this hunter has brought home. With
his chest jutting forward in council,
the man lets fly a murder of words
while his slack monster slouches
in the looted pen, its lips, tongue
forming a name for emptiness —
each morning, some go missing,
chickens, lambs, colts. A child,
brave wanderer, leaves a place
unfilled at her family's hearth.
Coyote, what bloody trick is this
you watch from your high blind
with a laugh edged in darkness?
What prank played on our people
is this hunter who boasts but brings
no quarry, who is now shepherd
to a beast that grumps and slavers
in the hollow of wealth undone,
never to be satisfied, never filled?
The work of our hands is ladled in,
lost, and our children killed.