We Who Are Missing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the high canyons where
The mad inventors live
Hand in hand with the last of
The Cherokee Indians,
The last of the wolves,
And the first of the heathens,
I go to give offerings
Of leprosy to the hungry axe:
A hand a foot,
A lip a tooth:
We can use these to buys things,
The parts of the body that by themselves
Are useless,
That, alone, you would not have:
So, I barter them for beaver pelts
And sacks of grain,
And rice,
And a daughter none others wanted
Because she only has one eye,
But with it, on the shadowed prairie
Where I am ever still
Moving away from you, and the
Bedroom in which you would not have
My things,
I show my daughter the moon’s
Sallow reflection on the flaxen seas,
And the promise of mountains
To the west
Where the rainstorms stampede down,
The plentiful timber and game,
With which we who are missing
Can build an acceptable home.