Some words disappear into history like the buffalo: her name for home, her name

her chatter weaving through the grasses and the hides
the way my friend screamed when i scraped my knee in her driveway

If only she’d kept a diary; not this one on display
made in her wake, nor the one made by the two men she led
she’ll remain undocumented, remains unoccupied story unknowable
only the consequences of her choices disrupt these days

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