A boy named Tunkasila Made little men with pale, cold clay To play with But they began to fight with one another They had green eyes Greedy eyes They killed each other one by one Down into the dirt they fell Like flies Tunkasila cried until all the world was awash in mud And the figures woke up Suffocated and cold And they were no longer pale and perfect They were stained earthen red, coffee grounds and rusted copper With lost eyes, brown eyes Dead eyes And so we were his old toys Lying half-buried and forgotten in the backyard
My brother drives too fast He treats his car like a living being, like he can hear it breathing I turn up the radio to drown out the roar of the engine Because I think that’s what he’s hearing And I wear my seat belt like a sash From a beauty pageant Because my brother drives too fast But we haven’t crashed yet It’s like he thinks he’s riding a newly tamed beast Like the pedals are spurs in its sides To urge it’s metallic mass forward Running, sprinting Too fast He thinks the steering wheel is a set of leather reins He grips the stick like he can feel a beating heart beneath his fist and we ease into 110 miles per hour His eyes trace the darkening horizon like he can read a route to heaven He thinks he can bend the roads to his will, white knuckle grip on the steering wheel As we spiral over the sunbaked blacktop Like he’s writing rhymes with his burnt rubber treads Like he speaks the prose of a V8 engine And I think my brother will leave one day Riding the winding tar trail into a red sunset
-- Luta Fast Dog is a high school senior attending Saint Francis Indian School on the Rosebud Sioux Tribe reservation in South Dakota. She enjoys reading, writing, and making art. She dreams of becoming an editor or published author and illustrator of children’s books.