To My Indian Brave...

You gave me a dream catcher
And said you’d be my Indian Brave.
You won a game of one-on one
And said I was your white buffalo.
You put a band-aid on my knee after I fell
And told me you’d be my Medicine Man.
You laughed at me when I jumped during that big storm,
And said, “Relax, it’s only a Thunderbird.”
You apologized after our first fight
And offered me a Peace Pipe instead of an Olive Branch.
You called me beautiful with eyes of turquoise
And hair of maize.
You built me a tipi out of my sheets
And asked me if I’d like to live there with you.
You carved me a flute out of buffalo bone
And played me a song to the drums only you can hear.
You invited me to family dinner
And your sisters braided feathers in my hair.
You told me that people could mistake me for Irene Bedard
And you had to explain to me who she was.
You asked me if God was red or white
And I told you that I didn’t think God had a race.
You told me that sometimes you feel like Crazy Horse
And other times you feel like Tonto.
You once held me so close that I could finally hear the beating drum,
And then your parents came home and we sat on opposite sides of your room.
You kissed me and said you wanted me to stay
But you never offered to leave with me.