Today I stand bare-chested with my brothers
as the medicine man daubs us with
the fierce colours of death.
The women must not see us like this
for blood is to be spilt.

Battle over, when some of us rise no more,
for nineteen days we will hide ourselves
in herb-steamed sweat-lodges, purging our pain
before the mothers deem we are fit
to be restored to the tribe.

Then I will keep tryst with my beloved in
the silent leafy woodlands, hands in hands
we’ll stand face to face
a single blanket covering our heads so
not to wound each other with our eyes.

But soon my unclad eyes will feast upon her
clad toe to chin in decorated buckskin
and if our families have no objection
and in tobacco smoke the medicine man
sees no unfriendly ghosts

we shall occupy a freshly built tepee
not to disport ourselves naked
like the filthy shameless palefaces
but to lie wrapped in separate blankets
each with but one secret opening.