We drive to Sacred Stone Camp
SUVS, trucks, pick-ups
from four directions,
stand by the sacred medicine rock,
touch the side of the mineral’s flank,
watch land and water
in the Cannon Ball River
turn red with blood,
an open trench, a scar dug
through a cascade of states.
The courts are slow. Judges silent.
Burial grounds and farmlands
bulldozed into the same pit.
Oil and pipelines guarded
by dogs on leashes who bite
those who protect children,
no trading futures
on an open market,
how the black gold
will help us god.
Come to Sacred Stone Camp.