Buffalo Medicine
A Poem by Kevin Finn
I found you that afternoon
where the road ends
behind the neighbor’s house
in the abandoned shed.
When I climbed up to the loft,
there was a candle in the window,
and a black and white book
of photos that captured
Adam Clayton dressed in
silver faux-fur with matching
silver frames. For some reason,
you always loved U2,
especially that video for One.
You already started to put
together a sand-box for your
second cousin’s nephew
by the edge of the yard –
he would be staying with you
until Sunday night.
You would always make
room for family,
buffalo medicine,
you said.
I just woke up in the
guest room, and started
to get ready for Tati’s wedding.
We would go by school bus
to Tribal grounds, under the old
hangar after the ceremony.
Clouds greyed the sky,
and the dust settled, as people
started for the bleachers.
When the drums started, I could
smell the buffalo stew, could see
the Auntie’s shifting the frybread
to aluminum pans.
I was covered in clay, loaded
up with earth as I was called
to the floor. I danced across,
brushing shoulders with the buffalo hide
on your back – the medicine worked
clear through, and I could feel the rain
begin to fall
Kevin Finn is a poet, musician, martial artist, and visual artist from Pittsburgh, PA. His latest collection is Consequence of Dream (Six Gallery Press, 2022).
