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Dead Songs

Kathryn Stripling Byer 
So many, she says.
She can hear them,
a long trail of song buried
all the way west into no-good land.
Tilting her head toward the woods.
Her mouth wanting words
she no longer knows how 
to speak.  Hush,
Mamaw, don’t talk,
I whisper, wiping her lips
where the spittle takes shape
like a message I dare not
heed, tempting as fake eagle
feathers the fancy Chiefs
wear while they dance round
the tepeees as if they can hear
something wild through the drumbeat
of traffic from the nearby casino.
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