Lullaby for the Hunter's Son

Close your eyes, My little Son
rest now calm
against my breast.
Winter is coming
and the great bear
goes back to her den
with her young.
The elk
will forage in the deep woods
where your father’s
arrow flies to find its mark.

Our people
will harvest what is left
of the corn and wild berries
the squash, the pumpkin
and the brown nuts
the trees bring forth.
Wakan Tanka, Great Spirit
watches over our people
this night
and all will be well.

Do not cry, my Son.
The fire will warm us
and you and I will sit
with the others as the smoke rises
and the soft drum begins its call.
Your father will speak this night
for it is the night of the Hunter’s Moon.
He will stand in the circle
and tell of his dreams.
He has seen the white buffalo
and the herds grazing on the plains
far north.
They will listen and I will be proud.

Soon you will grow strong
and leave my arms.
You will follow your father
and become a man.
I will not see you for many moons
when the hunt is long
but for tonight under these stars
you are mine
and my heart beats with mother’s love.
I will kiss your tiny hands
and stroke your raven hair.
I will blow my spirit through your heart
as yours has blown through mine
and you will know of love
that never dies.
for tonight, my little Son
. . . you are mine.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

Purple Quilt

She bought a purple quilt
satin soft and welcoming
a purple river flowing on their bed.
We little ones would run our hands
across it when we walked into that room.
It felt like love.

And sometimes, if a thunder storm was near
she'd bundle us together by the window
and open it wide to see and feel it all
the green and orange awnings flapping wildly
in the wind. Then like a banshee she'd grab
that quilt and slide it off the bed
dancing and twirling till she snatched
us up in it safe and warm
and cuddled us like little birds beneath
her wings . . . and suddenly we were brave.
There we could feel the raindrops
spray as they hit the sidewalk
listen close to rolling thunder in the heavens
and see the lightening flash across the sky.
She'd stand right in the middle telling of the angels
up there bowling strikes with every clash
and there we were . . . a purple quilted bundle,
leaning on the window sill, giggling and squealing
till every fear was gone beneath
that purple quilt and my mother's
arms as if they both were one . . .

Now I wonder, as I'm growing old
if she kept it on that bed to hide
not us . . . but her
and did she see her life untangling
evolving strange and different
moving far away from Dad and us
far away from what was coming
hiding from those demons
who began to dance their madness
in her head and pull her screaming through the door.