May 10, 2024
Blizzard, South Dakota // Heather Calhoun
Months afterwards, I see the electrical poles piled along the road.
When the blizzard smothered the land, my tribe was displaced. Like shot gun blasts heard in the distance, those poles snapped, weighted by ice.
A month in motels, we ate fast food, while the winter deer meat expired in the basement.
Movie stars flocked to Haiti. We watched the news, wondered about us, about our reservation, about our home.
Those dialysis machines failed without electricity, pushed people farther away, closer to the spirit world.
I still hear those poles ricochet at these wakes.