Currier and Ives
	
	A rough cut oak frame, dusty with age
	hid a brighter hue, 
	brighter than the once sky-blue walls, now disguised by a thirty year nicotine film. 
	Custer fell from his mare, 
	while faded Indians, tomahawks and knives in hand, 
	leaned from spotted horses to ‘murder innocent soldiers.’
	A ‘savage’ in the background 
	scalped one man, wide-eyed and alert.
	A million rounds of “Cowboys and Indians” 
	started beneath that Currier and Ives print.

	After Custer’s defeat, 
	the native women drove bone sewing needles
	through his eardrums, 
	His soul might hear the cries that in life 
	his ears could not.

	Maybe he thought that if he could ignore these cries
	they would go away, and no one would be the wiser.
	Maybe that’s why I ignored Mom’s cries. 
	“Just senility kickin’ in,” I’d joke “Too much time on her hands,” 
	and maybe that’s why I was back home,
	smelling that stale ass kitchen
	and staring at that ridiculous picture again.

	When Sis went to clean Mom’s house
	Mom followed her everywhere,
	like a walker hound, blood trailing a deer, 
	to the bathroom while Sis disinfected the deep claw footed tub, 
	even while she scrubbed her toilet, 
	with never a word, just standing over her, statuesque,  
	watching with squinted eyes like a Harris hawk waiting for a rabbit’s misstep.
	But, uncertainty held her tongue. 
	We convinced her of her own senility, so why should she have kept watching?

	Each Sunday evening,
	Mom methodically rationed out her pills for the week, 
	each into its respective slot, branded with day and time.
	No need for double checking.
	I did not want to hear that every Friday,
	while I did Mom’s hair, 
	Sis would sneak in and replace 
	heart pills with sleeping pills,
	and Xanex with sleeping pills,
	and every other pill with sleeping pills,
	so I too ignored the cries. 

	Under soft light and pastel flowers,
	I didn’t want to hear brass latches snap,
	or  Sis’s solemn song as it flowed down the fluid grain of the dark oak, 
	most of all I did not want to hear the sounds of seldom worn dress shoes
	coercing the sand across rough concrete,
	beneath self-assured whispers of “She’s in a better place now.”

Shane Townsend has devoted his professional life—as a writer, an advocate, and an emergency manager–to assisting those in crisis. His involvement in the recovery work at the Pentagon after September 11, then international development work with Peace Corps-Bolivia, and relief work after Hurricane Katrina have afforded him insight into the lives of vulnerable populations. Their stories have galvanized his resolve not only to serve directly, but to report honestly the human condition in a manner that compels others to act and to bring forth resources.