Native Woman

Her hair back from the wide round faceflows, almost a girl's, so thick,caught back in combs, racingand curling through them with blackestvigor, although it is pure white.Cracked face, dusk-colored: not redbut with a deep red struggling underthe coming night. The eyes shift quickly,the subway train jerks and rattles,green vinyl, light flickering, silver poles.Eyes driven from ancient calm,which may fear but is never franticand says nothing, such as looks outfrom the old Indian portraits -- calm isthe one thing missing from the beautyof her face in the black window.Those unresting eyes theretalk plainly: there's no moneyat home, men young and old go wrong,life almost at its end isstill day by day harried and perplexed.