My father was a child of divorce
(An almost absent dad,
a hole in the heart to fill.)
He took a picture of the Apache chief Geronimo
one blustery day to school.
He said that was who his father was.
A half truth maybe,
a mortified white mother but why?
I would be proud to call him grandfather,
be a coconspirator in the lie.
A face already bronzed,
an arrowhead stare,
flint and steel married in the eyes.
Chiseled rock his cheekbones and chin.
Buckskin rough like a broncho
but a natural dancer and agile also
like a prairie pirouette
of weaving buffalo grass.
The whole truth?
My father needed a hero.
And so few to pick from
why not choose the farthest from home
who at least was given a choice
to walk away or stay.
Geronimo can be a man, a war time cry
or just a boy falling off a plane.