Funeral for a Sioux Elder: a Sestina
                              For Grandma Charity Wing

Her last request; Everyone wear white
to my funeral. Perhaps the dolor color
of widows is too bleak? She won’t say. She’s blind
at 98, and her thoughts run sharp and clear
as her devotions.  She requests dozens of notices
be sent and she wants her funeral inside the church

her father built. He founded the first church
of the Assiniboine Sioux, translated the white
man’s hymns into Dakota and didn’t notice
the inconsistencies of his belief; faith had no color
in his mind, but ran chaste. His intents were clear:
release these souls from blindness.

Her kin went to task with mops, brooms, blinded
by acres of dust, debris of the neglected church.
Beams and windows were wiped and cleared,
the columns and walls gleamed white
with fresh paint, the planks were color-
less, the pews aligned, only the garish notice

was conspicuous, a harsh stain too noticeable
tacked to the doors. You’d have to be blind
not to see that, someone joked. No color
but for this.  The graveyard past the church
housed its faded world, the rows of white
crosses and emblems, anchored the clear

open skies while the wind staked its own clearing
beyond the embrace of the living, within notice
of the Grandmothers. While the sun bore down, white-
hot, merciless, its weight fixed as with a blinding
knot, they gathered and filled the church
to bury her.  Minding her request, the only color

worn was white. Uniformed as sheets, no color
to break them up, all pale shoots and clear
pallets, her children blended into the church
walls, became the fixtures, the floor, didn’t notice
the damp, choked air that collapsed with the blind
grasp of the fans; but bore witness awash in white.