Carried all week, small stone of story in my luggage.
How did we progress, in the span of a grocery line,
from paper or plastic to powwows, you asked.
For a moment, I have no idea. Then trace it
back to him admiring my beaded necklace
while he scanned and tallied our groceries.
He told me it reminded him
of ones his aunties made to sell at powwows
and had we ever been
And now, all these days later, time to write this down
before life rushes it away. Turns out what I hold isn’t
the small magic, sweet berries of talk with strangers,
or even the glow of you and I
with so much to say to each other
that a week won’t hold it all.
Turns out what I now hold is this:
The look on his young, faintly acne-scarred face
when I asked if he went to powwows, too
along with his aunties.
Oh yes, he said, eyes Alive,
But not to sell bead work.
He smiled, quiet and proud,
as he bagged our groceries.
At the powwows,