Her poems are tall, strong, sometimes fierce,

So I was surprised to see her

Small, round figure and the smile

That teetered on the brink of laughter.

We sat outside the Blue-Eyed Indian Bookstore,

Run by Leslie’s mom,

Displaying Leslie’s dad’s photographs,

And we talked about Leslie

As we ate Indian Fry-Bread

And watched the sun set.

“This is good,” Ken exclaims.

Paula winks at me and shakes her head.

Leave it to the educated white man

To feel a need to put words to the experience

Of having oven-hot fry-bread, melted butter,

Sweet berry jam swirl in the mouth until it becomes

Part of us, tasting history (the bread baked in earthen ovens

More than a thousand years old,

Fried in black White Man pans,

Jam made by berries picked and mixed by hands taught

By her mother,

Who was taught by her mother,

Who was taught . . .).

And Ken calls it “good.”

Paula and I look at the sun,

Watch as it spreads its crimson and orange fire

Across the horizon,

Mixing colors with the deep earth red of the desert

And the dark grey stone of the mesa.

“Yes,” Paula says. “It’s good.”

For a moment, I understand the poet.