An elegant pipe bomb
is found
unexploded
but still live
in a suburban mailbox.

The maker
has dispassionately painted
the cylinder with careful strokes
so that it resembles a piece
of Zia pottery.

The explosive inside
is potent and unusual
and wrapped in a coat of tiny
white men made of lead.
The ends are packed with shrapnel,

small bits of steel
cut into the shape
of the bodies left in the snow
at the 1890
Wounded Knee Massacre.

Attached to the bomb
is a note that reads
“Welcome to the continent”
and a feather from
a peregrine’s tail.

All over the country,
people begin to avoid
their mailboxes, staying in
and reading their property deeds,
examining their family trees

for records of cavalry sergeants,
missionaries, traders, storekeepers,
farmers, ranchers, pioneers,
Congressmen, Senators, and Presidents.
No one likes what they find.

In subsequent days
more bombs are found.
Not a one ever explodes
but everyone holds their breath.
Everyone feels as if they’re on trial.

The suspects are known to be
hiding in plain sight
right around here somewhere.
Even though the government has banned
casinos and dreamcatchers

and closed the roads to every reservation,
the investigation is stalled
while the bombs keep appearing
in mailboxes, in car trunks,
in closets, on television,

in place names, in foodstuffs,
on the roads, near the rivers,
in the language itself.
Everywhere we look, in fact,
we know there could be a bomb.