Just after his death last winter I discovered Morrisseau's work at the Museum of the American Indian in Manhattan. Mural-filled rooms. It throbbed with something. Ephemera. We sat in front of The Shaman's Drum, wanting to reach through the ceremonious glass case, and said, Let's go make things. But I knew what I had power to do couldn't pulse like that. I wrote him a poem called "Bauble" in the spring, which I am kind of embarrassed of now.
Come to my dinner party, Norval. I will sit you between Esther Bubley and my uncle Gary, and we will talk of human sadness, what comprises a feather, the first snake-dance caught on flickering film in 1894.
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