I went to the sweat lodge last November
and paid 300 dollars to have my soul
cleansed.
On my next trip, a vision quest,
no meals were included in the package
and I was left alone in a forest to fast
for 36 hours. In my vision I saw a hairy
ape trying to kill me with a chainsaw.
Judy Barnes, whose Indian-given name was
shwan gan aktaki nwan: high spirit from
the low edges, left me with much wisdom
that weekend.
I told her I would never sleep on
cactus again, nor would I let her
fuck my husband in a tent facing east
as the sun rose like a giant stone
and the vipers were crawling out my
ass one by one.
At my next sweat lodge I was luckier.
The man of my dreams turned out to be
a truck driver from Massachusetts.
We're going to put together a small
store in Colorado that sells dream
catchers, indian poetry, and my very
own oil paintings of rabid prairie dogs
this summer.
-- Angel Longhorn
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