I joined the carolling in the museum,
And sang with my hosts
As we sat on the carpeted floor
Under the giant totem poles.
I wondered what dialogue there could be
Between these songs, mostly from Europe,
And the mighty and silent creations
Of these ancient peoples.
I had read of one of them,
Now nicknamed an “Indian”,
Who had challenged a preaching missionary,
And insisted that there was no way that this Jesus he was talking about
Could have been a white man like him;
He surely was a Cherokee or Navajo,
Or some other native of Abya Yala,
Their name for their land.
And I remember now, a painting by Georgia O’Keeffe
Of a church in New Mexico,
Built in the adobe pueblo style of architecture
And with a cross on it.
I wondered what this Jewish genius,
Member of another ancient, subordinated and invaded people,
And of whose birth we were singing,
Would say to these massive but silent presences
Hovering behind us,
With their own silent songs,
Sung only in these images of power.