Mask

by Mike Beasley

Bold black eyebrows arched above
Black almond eyes jutting skyward:

The eyes pine for raven-flight,
For the cloud-path of the ancestral clan.

The cheek bones, awash in sallow green,
Accentuate the red nostrils, flared contemptuous.

How red, how fierce and stark the stained lips:
Oh feast of sweet berries crushed, of blood spilt!

If by shaman’s curse this mask prowls earth,
Finds arms, legs, hands and feet, heart and brain,

And if those epileptic teeth were pried apart—
What words would blast from that volcanic breast!

Of cedar wood I carved it: I, a tribal man.
I thrill for a woman and kiss my children’s cheeks.