pocahontas.

on days like these,
i think about cuddling
into the couch cushions
of a sofa that i know
has seen too much, and
turning myself into pocahontas.

i'll build the pillows around
and the afghans above and end
up with something like a teepee
for thoughts that nobody else
has to know about, and nobody else
has to care about, and nobody else
has to worry about dismantling
because someday i'll probably tear
it down myself when it's time
for moving, and it's time for new homes.

i'll click the screen toward play
as i pull my side-swept-braid across
the crease of my neck, and as the
lights in the corner of the apartment
wade up toward the ceiling,
i'll melt into the image of someone
a little more free.

and as i melt, it's only fair to tell you,
that the pocahontas i dream of being,
is more of Walt's creation than a
figure from historic's accuracy.
and in telling you, i know full well
to expect you to tell me it's a tricky illusion,
setting up for what will never be.
but you see, what if that's exactly what i need?
what if i need to think that at least
one existed spirit is free enough to forsake
the expected to chase what she needs?
i just can't imagine it like the history man says.
i can't imagine someone free as the night,
free as I need, would marry someone
who didn't understand her, who didn't
understand what it is to dream.

and as i'm doing all the melting,
toward everything i can't be here,
i'll let you realize that this has
nothing to do with being an indian,
but has everything to do with being a native,
of some, electric place. of something magic.
of somewhere, that belongs with me.
because, i guess what i'm saying is that
even though i can't run through fields of corn
barefoot and have hummingbirds for best friends,
i would wholeheartedly trade this fabricated
attempt at a life for a teepee by the river
for all my days