At the Arlee Pow-Wow with My Unborn Child

Past the pup tents and teepees, just beyond

Mo’s Indian Fry Bread Tacos, children

are doing the Snake Dance. On the highway,

two semis pass, each slung with half a house,

and deer, leading their speckled young

through dead grass, shudder. Little swimmer

of shallow waters, diver of lights-out

interior oceans—who am I to teach you

how to dance? I buy earrings made from porcupine

quills, lemonade from the most expensive

stand, the one where white boys from town

crush thick huckleberries into the ice,

and I’m embarrassed for myself again.