66
SPOTTED-FACE PRAYS
Put in my hands your devil-magic herbs:A medicine to kill Blue-Whooping-Crane,Whose pretty talk, like tongue of rattlesnake,Tickled my woman until she bared her breastTo it and took his poison in her blood;A medicine to wither and rot the legs.Of Pierre La Plante, who took her to his lodge,And ran with her to parish Trois Pistoles.
Give me an herb to lock the jaws of womenTight as a rusty trap, to freeze the lipsOf the dry old women of my tribe who speakMy name with mouths that flow with dirty laughter.
Fix me a woman, a woman who will holdHerself for me alone, as the trumpeter-swanThat waits through lonely silver nights for wingsThat whistle down the wind like an old song.
Ho! Mighty-Spirit, let your heart grow goodTo me with presents; so much I ask—no more.
