My father’s father’s mother was a Cherokee.
Too little native blood, it seemed, to qualify
for aid . . . even if we would;
too many threads to trace and verify.
the taste of squash and maize and bean,
of a people half-forgot, yet full subsumed,
darting in and out; coming, going teasingly;
and tempting to dismiss.
when she was still alive;
a bastard baby girl; high cheeks, dark hair.
and teen-age pregnancy,
to my native tendencies.