The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions

quixotically among her disunified, fragmented perceptions of the
world and her place within it. It is disconcerting in many ways,
for she is not easily placed in one camp or another—politically,
socially, or poetically. It must be said, though, that her finest
poetry springs out of her Catholic mysticism, through which, it
seems, she realizes the true reach of her considerable powers of
contemplation, comprehension, and poignant longing for a clear,
solid ground on which to stand.
The Figure in Clay
Climbing the hill
When it was time,
Among sunken gravehouses
I filled my fists with earth
And coming down took river water,
Blended it,
Shaped you, a girl of clay
Crouched in my palms
Mute asking
To be made complete.
Long afterward
I buried you deep among
Painted masks.
Yet you ride my plasma
Like a platelet,
Eldest kinswoman.
You cry to me through smoke
Of tribal fires.
I echo the primal voice,
The drumming blood.
Through decades waiting