…to maybe hunt proud bison on
plains of your tribe still
when you’ve gone home
to your loved mother who
cherished your upbringing
dressed your first kills
soaking the corn
seeds smiling and your father
counts them with care before
hoeing them under earth you give thanks
for her endless nourishment foreigners
complement the dreams of nature
infinite-seeming sacks of corn
the giant company’s seed
breeding out your own
exiles rewrite maps
offer corn whiskey for furs
and reserves to hide the hungry
