You could have worn the black stripe Pendleton yourself
if you’d come down to Oklahoma to get named in the Quaker church in Hominy.
All of us cousins on trust land with our Morrell relatives
near Pettit Street named for our family. Uncle Preston
slumped on the cracked leather sofa, the eagle wing fan clacking
when he lifted his arm from his slim chest to fan us off.
You might have stopped using,
if you’d come from some other family.
Our Grandmother was serious,
bitter, unyielding, our Mom
loud and loving, talking shit.
We know suffering,
Red yellow tightly woven white
wavers in heavy cotton
coral snake strong, the
blanket smells of cedar smoke.
I wear it tucked under one arm
like an old Wah Zha Zhi woman for you.
Ruby Hansen Murray (Osage) is a student in the MFA program at the Institute of American Indian Arts.