I am a bow,
pulled taunt,
for 42 years.

A bow,
strung with human skin,
muscle and sinew,
held tight, aimed towards the sun.

My bones were somewhat left out
of this equation,
left to roam,
endlessly.

To chase the moon,
to feel the wind
carress an empty rib cage,
to dance in midnight air.

These bones have been wrapped
in somber prairie light,
have rattled with the old ones
of Wounded Knee,
have stood ravaged,
by the sight of immense desert,

For what?
In search of what?