What I found at the end of the canyon

I wandered way up that canyon

That day in December, 1969

Outside of Chinle, Navaho country,

A canyon that had never seen a white man.

But was I even a man?

At 18 my whiteness had become a problem

As I fled the Vietnam war

With a timebomb in my angry heart

To the only place that felt safe to me, the desert.

In that wild tapering place

I was almost prepared for when I reached the end

Where the brow of an unassailable wall

Cast a permanent shadow

Over a trickle of water Issuing like blood

From a never healing wound.

Under the canyon's brow there was a cave

A five minute scramble straight up.

In that cave were the remnants of an ancient fire

And bits of pottery older than America

With which I filled my pockets.

I left only the tracks of my shoes.

Now, 55 years later, I suspect that the spirits

Must have been discussing me in that cave.

I picture them betting against each other

On the odds of my living beyond 18.

For years I thought I was buying time

By promising to return those shards of pottery

To the cave at the end of the canyon,

But the truth is I had no intention of going back.

Stealing is a white man's way.

At least I can say

That I succeeded in defusing

The bomb in my heart.

Turned out there was time

For everything I had to do.