Julia Anna Archibald, 1858

1.

Since joining this train, I have worn
bloomers beneath a calico dress
that barely covers my knees.
I have become stronger, can walk ten miles a day,
have offered to stand watch at my husband's side.
Yet these men prefer I languish inside
my hot wagon, its flaps tied shut
against dust and any curious eyes.
Let me tell you what I've learned:
always cross a stream before camping—
by morning what was once tranquil
may become a raging river. Last week
my husband was offered two squaws
in trade for me. One Arrapahoe,
with skin as burnished as copper, signaled me
to jump on the back of his horse. Even
as I shook my head no, I imagined myself
galloping across the plain,
the feathers at the end of his scalplock
like a wing against my cheek,
the pony's spine hard between my thighs.

2.

Buffalo move like gods across the plain.
Yet there is something like sadness
in the hump of their shoulders, in the weight
of their broad heavy heads. Something
like wisdom trailed from their bearded chins.
In gunny sacks, we carry their chips to use for fuel
when wood is scarce, cook our food over that fire,
supplement our diet with their meat. At Bent's Fort,
a buffalo robe is worth ten cups of sugar.
Let me tell you about this calf. Only
a week old, it was too young to keep up
with the herd startled into stampede by our hunters.
Three times its mother returned to urge it along,
offering her life in exchange. To keep it alive,
the men bring it to me, as if my instincts were enough.

3. Apparition

Across the Plains, the Indians settle
their dead on stilts, the bodies drying
high above ravening wolves.
From a distance they look like altars
for an unknown god. How frail,
in comparison, the small white crosses
at the base of Wagon Mound,
where ten massacred men
were consigned to ground.

Many Christmases ago, I pierced
oranges with so many whole cloves
that I could barely see a sliver of peel.
On wide red ribbon, I hung them
in windows and in wardrobes
where they spiced our clothes with
their scent. Now, in a cruel parody,
I imagine the bodies of those men pierced
with arrows. Still, it's not those
ghosts that trudge through my dreams,
but the Apache princess captured and carried
to the Mound by soldiers who demanded
she point them toward her tribe. Instead,
in courage or desperation, she grabbed
a butcher knife and sliced their mules' necks.

When I was young, I liked to stare at
the sun, its image scorching my eyes
so that for just a few seconds, I could see
its ghost wherever I looked—in patches of dirt,
hovering above the palm of my hand.
As we pass Wagon Mound, I imagine
the scorch of her spirit forever
burned into the horizon: arms raised, defiant.