Her words curled before him in spirals. She told him, "They work a section-gang down the street." She, Sheba, the Navajo, never spilled beer. "My folks are of the [censored] clan." Her words sped in jerky motion. She told him, "We left the reservation when I was ten. I lost my [censored] when I was eleven." She went to wait on another table. A guy slapped her big fat [censored]. A bunch of dudes from Black Mesa Mine still in hardhats came in. He admired the way she handled them. Her words curled around their heads, turning them back into farmhands. She, Sheba, the Navajo, punched Hank Williams's "Lonesome Trail." She took the empties away and never once let on that she felt like [censored] every minute here with these ex-sheepherders in McKinley uniforms. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRAYER FOR COURAGE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER PISGAH SIGHTS by ROBERT BROWNING UP IN THE MORNING EARLY by ROBERT BURNS AT THE LAST by RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE DANTE AND ARIOSTO by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |