War Chief Poem by Bernard Henrie

She begs to stay up another hour
and carefully refills the fat gold fountain
pen inherited from her grandfather.
She doesn't spill a drop of the number two
black India ink.

She is writing a story for him:

My grandfather is a handsome war chief,
proud as an Arapaho horseman.

She asks how to spell Arapaho.

Lovingly persuasive, she is from one
or another of two close by heavens;
cradled against my shoulder, she writes
on a yellow school pad.

Five minutes after finishing,
her eyes close; I lift her into bed and sit close by for an hour
talking silently to her grandfather.





















She begs to stay up another hour,
carefully refilling the fat gold fountain pen
of her grandfather. He died last summer
and she is writing a story for him:

'My grandfather is handsome
as a war chief,
proud like an Arapaho horseman...'

She asks how to spell Arapaho.

Bargains with loving assurance, but who says
no to a child arrived from any one of several
far away heavens?