Indian dolls stare like pythons from adobe platforms.
No fingers to shush thoughts streaming past eyelids.
It’s palatable as the red sun.
No justice prominent protruding among the cacti.
Blue eyes flickering among glass and red beads.
Someone whistles on the wooden porch.
Children dropping beads to batter olden boards.
Sherman Alexie couldn’t have portrayed it better.
His is the only justice.
His is the only way.
There’s no more to be said. Only written down.
De trop. De trop.