WIGWAM Poem by Jan Erik Vold

The warm
rock
and the
warm moss, the warm grass, friendly

green, turning
yellow
from
the dry weather

of this year, this summer, the summer
being
the best
time of the year - look at the red

stain of the horizon, the red
edge of the evening sky, all the roads
you wanted
to take and all the roads

never
taken, the roads that you
tried out
and those that remained

up in the
blue, the blue
of the sky, you the invisible Jack
on the invisible

ladder, climbing
invisible roads, untried
and challenging , impassable
roads - as well as white

path roads rolling between white picket
fences
orderly strung
between

grounded
houses, surrounded by gardens
that know
their fences, the path roads

winding in between, leading
into
a night
which

never ends - not a summer's night
but a
deafening
darkness where not even

speechlessness
is, where nobody is who could be
without
speech, where

no voice
is
that could be
mute - that road, that darkness, the road

flutters
back and forth, back and
forth
in the open space

inverted, the picket fence
unrolled, the road
leading
to the squeak

of the good old
back
yard
gate, a plain Indian waiting, who has

been waiting, who said she'd always be
waiting
by the
entrance

of the tent, with a smile
on her face
and her
head slanted ("we were wondering

whatever
became
of
you"), the ever-present

friendliness of an Indian, the fire
burning, the flames
of the bonfire, the blaze of
those flames, the inner glow

of a pair of
sparkling
eyes - were those eyes brown? were those eyes
blue? all aglow

is what
they were, an almond light
ascending
from

a body of heat, you lady
with
a handle, you lady
with a door, the wigwam

is waiting, the
wigwam is open - that's where
he'll
enter, the wigwam

closing
its door
towards the blond twilight
of a summer's night, one single star

is out, one single
flag
pole
remains, one single bat

flutters
back and forth, back and
forth
in the open space

between the birches, drawing
their
contours
against the glimmering sky, every leaf

greenish black, every
leaf
dead still, you my
wigwam, you

my squaw - soon we'll be smoking
the peace pipe
of our
bodies together!