Run, Kid

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Run, Kid
Wearing supermarket shoes and old clothes,
we sprinted through the reservation dirt
and drank cold water through a garden hose
when the dust made deserts of our throats.
In summertime, we removed our T-shirts,
climbed the trees, and shouted dirty jokes
from pine to pine. One day, a branch broke
and Arthur fell. He couldn’t fly. He was no bird.
But he somehow grabbed the tree and slowed
his descent. The rough bark tore a ragged road
down his ribs and chest. “It hurts, it hurts,”
he said. But, immediately after his body and soul
were healed, he resumed living by warrior-code.
We attacked the world with merry and mirth.
We shot imaginary arrows from broke-stick bows
and ran all brown and beautiful and bold.
We rebelled against human, animal, and earth.
We ran until the sweat made salt of our clothes
then we drank cold water through a garden hose.