Quanah Parker Speaks

For the ghosts of those who can no longer speak for themselves…

This is to tell you that I was once beautiful.

This is to show you that I was strong

And very fine. I was gentle with my wives.

Less than a century ago and my bones are lodged

In the Texas clay like shattered pieces of Apache pottery.

Less than a century and my skull grins stupidly

In the burnished sun. Year I searched for my mother,

Bells jingling across the prairie, my face painted black,

Spreading the star of death. Nowhere could I find her;

Clawing my way through tumbleweed,

A storm of blood and the long slope

Of buff-colored hills near the Oklahoma border.

At that time, I did not know she was dead,

That she had died without a sigh

In the midst of her people.

When I was a younger man, less than thirty,

My several wives fell at my feet. By this time

I was an important chief and they gave up everything

To my offering. Some were beautiful women, some

Were not. But always they gifted me with

Their precious jewelry: wedding rings, colored beads

And many shells of abalone. Then a silver brooch

Which I clasped to a silk scarf shaded

Into the same colors of the sky. Often they would fuss

And plait my long hair, a chesnut-colored water

That spilled all the way to my ankles.

Some feared because of my tainted blood that

I might pick a white-eyed woman. But I knew

Better. Under my knife, the white man’s

Blood smiled. Their heads slid through my hands.

I remember how I clutched them to my body

As a lover would, while the life

Spilled out like an ivory shadow.

Once on a raid near a cabin we found only

Women at home. This was not easy

But I held them down. I remember how the old one

Arched upwards toward my hips like a wild pony

Bucking away. Her bones were sharp in my sides.

I am sorry that I had to kill her. For days

The long silver hairs hung from my sleeves

Like slivers of moonlight. I could not forget

Her cries, how they crackled like sticks in a fire.

And deeply I was ashamed. For these were women.

Then the little girl, the white child.

She was no more than nine summers.

I remember how I wrestled her down

To the dirt floor of the cabin.  She tore

The shirt from my arms. She was very brave.

Just as my knife smiled on her neck,

I saw the eyes of my mother like wild cornflowers

Stirring on a Texas plain. Suddenly,

I backed away and a younger warrior

Took away her scalp before she died.

Later, I saw the shimmering rust-colored hair

Dangling from a cowardly Kwahadi belt

And still I thought, “How can this happen?”

My mother’s hair was autumn, warm brown

And scented with fire. In the wedged light

Of morning, I remember her by the tipi door

Suckling my infant sister Prairie Flower.

My mother’s eyes were cool like water

And her skin was light where the sun

Had not yet kissed it. I was not there

When they stole her away. Neither was my father.

Afterwards, the Nocona band loosened

As desperately as chains in long hair.

Or pulse weakened as the blood of generations

Slipped away.  By this time I was not happy,

So I joined the fierce Kwahadi.

Fire raged in my loins. Blood sang in my teeth.

A murderous urge bound me

To my dark purpose.

It was June when my band of 700 mixed warriors

Stole upon the Adobe Fort under a robe of night.

Twenty-eight white sprawled under the walls

Like maggots hiding under the shadowy ribs

Of a fallen elk. A deep breathing of sleep

Formed over their lodge. I hunkered

In the stillness with yellow eyes then scaled

The pointed pole gladly eating dust.

No sounds except for the cry of a coyote

As I crossed the wall. From nowhere

A bullet sang, stinging metal

And the hot bite of pain in my back.

I tumbled to the ground, stunned,

Then crawled back to my men

Under the raw stench of a buffalo carcass.

Beneath a flowering tree they watched me tremble,

Saw my face go pale as the leaping underside

Of an antelope. So I went crazy,

Rose up in the ribbons of my blood,

Tried to batter down the door, screamed

Sharp blades of rage in their ears.

I wanted to kill them all but the Great Spirit

Did not offer me this delight. On the third day,

The sour smell of death ate away

At our remaining scraps of courage.

The moon gulped our shame as we retreated

Leaving thirteen dead Kwahadi braves.

So the white hunters decapitated the bodies

And placed the thirteen astonished heads

On sharpened poles about the base.

The years grew hopeless. More and more

Comanche agreed to live in square houses.

Out of the circle protection of the sacred tipi,

We grew weak. In the spring of 1875, I received

An urgent message from Colonel MacKenzie

Of the U.S. Cavalry. To hold out any longer

Meant the extermination of my people.

Our babies were sick. Our women’s breasts

Were dry. Young Kwahadi grew tired

As old grandfathers. Therefore,

I personally guaranteed our surrender.

It is true my commitment never wavered,

But the early years on the reservation sorely tested

My promise. Always we were hungry. And they fed us

Nothing but the inedible white grain from the east.

When we cooked it up, our women believed

The white man tried to trick us into eating maggots.

We could not conceive of this as human food.

At first we threw it out, but then we boiled it

Down to a thick milk. Our babies did not cry

So much anymore. All this time, I was restless.

I wondered about my mother, about her people.

Many requests and then permission

For me to travel to east Texas to seek out

A Mister Silas Parker, my only remaining relative,

My uncle. A note from an Indian agent that read:

“This young man is the son of Cynthia Ann Parker.

Please show him the road and help him as you can.”

Long journey until the skin of my shoes

Wore away and my feet grew leather soles

Of their own. Walking, walking toward

The white hot sunlight of Silas Parker.

Silas Parker, his name an amulet that rattled

In my pocket, Silas Parker, big and white

And always in my eyes, always in my mouth,

Eating the heat for five days until one day

On a slanted porch sat as very old man

In his shrunken rocker. And this,

Was Silas Parker, staring through a visored hand

With narrow eyes looking as if he could easily kill me.

For the first time I felt disgrace in my long braids,

For my own father was one who murdered

The Parker family. Suddenly I stepped from darkness,

Yelled, “Quanah Parker, Uncle! Cynthia Ann’s first boy!”

The old man slowly rose as if his body might break.

He hobbled down the steps to sharply clasp my arm.

There looking into the cool steel of his eyes,

I knew that I stared into my own. Rivers of tears

Formed on the landscape of his face,

So wanting to be strong, I quickly glanced away.

After this Silas welcomed me, eager to show me

My white side. Weeks I worked beside Silas,

Milking spotted cows and putting up hay,

Then Mae, his wife, would turn the delicious cream

Into a rich butter bright as certain desert flowers.

Night fell in a curtain of dark as Mae seated me

At the kitchen table explaining the mysterious marks

That conveyed the white language. Sometimes

She worked to convince me of the Jesus way,

A path I respected but could not follow.

Not so long until I could scratch my name

On reams of paper… “Quanah” meaning “fragrant,”

In the sienna-skinned tones of deep Comanche.

But this they would never understand.

Then stories of my mother and little Prairie Flower

Who fell ill and died shortly thereafter.

Stricken with grief my mother starved herself

Into the grave. At night they allowed me

To sleep in her neat bed. In that dark

I smelled the sweet sachet of the white women.

Starched lace grazed my cheek as I lay

Awake with the full moon grinning through the glass.

All night, I smelled the heavy scent of lilac,

Rose, and honeysuckle. All that time knowing,

This was not my mother.

Time spent among the Parkers rooted my joy,

Quenched the insatiable curiosity of my mother’s family.

They were a good people but I had wives and little children

At home. By fall I left in a torrent of Mae’s tears.

Both were old and I did not want to witness

The wing of death that soon would touch them.

Home again when I was met by a brigade

Of shining buttons, four Indian agents who insisted

I give up seven of my eight wives

As this was not the proper way for the new society.

Then loose insinuations I was not a decent man.

Many nights spent sleepless and my wives

Worried, crying into their hands,

Until, finally, I said, “You tell them who will stay

And who will go.” All women remained under my roof.

Years silently slipped behind me and finally

I laid to rest the lean, tormented ghost of my past.

It is true, I became a prosperous cattle rancher

And worked peacefully beside the whites.

I refused to take part in the swallowing

Of bitter seeds so a poison tree might spring

From my belly. Sometimes I think when a man

Faces a wild and terrible force it is wiser

To ride it than resist. You can see how

A willow bends in the embrace of a storm.

The next day the willow stands in the midst

Of scarred and broken limbs. Nothing has changed.

It is still the willow just I am still Quanah.

I have not changed.

You must understand that I remained

A fierce Kwahadi but in quiet defiance.

Often I fought in the echoing halls

Of congress for Comanche rights.

Such a spectacle I was dressed in fine skins,

Beaver wrapped tight around my braids.

Not so long until Roosevelt traveled

From the east to hunt with me in Comanche

Country where I easily outstripped him

In the race. Later the return of my

Mother’s bones. Without the slightest

Tremor of regret, I sliced off my long

Curtain of hair to show my respect.

All this time and I was tired.

My strong and massive body wore thin.

My hands shriveled like leaves

With a constant, drawing pain.

My children shot tall and looked

At me with the sad faces of strangers.

All this time and I had to admit

That old age had crept in

Knitting my bones to the chair.

Finally, I have settled. As sand that shifts

To the bottom of the creek bed, I have settled

Into my bed of death. This is not bad for I had left

My children and a large family I cared for properly.

I left a town which carries me pitted in the heart

Of its name. Quanah sighs across the white man’s

Lips. Quanah, Quanah, whispers in the rain.

My name twists and wedges between words.

Even now, they cannot forget. Sometimes a grit of wind

Sounds over my grave, calling the voices of all

Who have gone before and after… The cries

Of Christians speak hosanna. Hosanna hey stirs

And whinnies over my grave. But, no, it is Quanah

They say. The Indian children’s laughter breaks

The clouds. They will not forget. For it is

Quanah they hear. Beneath a painting of Jesus,

Death held me up in her dark arms. Sweetly

She kissed me until my body dropped away

Like a dry husk. I could only see her eyes;

Stars hammered silver against a black black sky.

I chose to be buried in the old ways. Isa-Tai,

The tribal medicine man was summoned

When they lowered me gently into the earth.

His hands flapped over my breast

Making the sign of the eagle,

Taking me toward darkness,

The deathly quiet night.