I once,
as a boy,
owned a cane
crowned
with the ball
from the top of a femur.
Grew sick inside,
once I was grown,
to learn it was human;
from its age and provenance
was likely taken from
a Native grave
or perhaps sheared fresh
from one fallen in battle,
massacre, or misadventure, then
turned into a trophy like a necklace
of dried ears or a tobacco pouch
sewn from a tanned scrotum.
When the cane was stolen
not long after, I was at first
relieved, then soon enough
unsettled, thinking of how
heads and scalps were stolen
and traded and monetized
in those days of first conquest.
I imagined it in an ignorant hand —
or worse, in the hand of one
who knew exactly what it was
and traded it for crisp bills
to another who knew it too.
There are nights I wake
with my hand outstretched
seeking — absolution? redemption?
a chance to bury it
in the earth where it belongs? No.
I fear sometimes
that if it were
to return to me
I would hold it and claim
it had come back to me
because I am the unique
and rightful keeper
of such things,
though I know
in my own bones
such a thing
to be horrid
and untrue.
How lovely it would be
to lie to the dead
and allow myself to think
I am any less
a thief of their rest
than any other
who would take it,
have it, hold it,
keep it as if it were their own.
Dark Matter 