I Summer, 1965 Always a game of Go on the go in that shady dusty corner of the Columbia quad a few gasping clumps of grass struggling against summer heat. I’d wander over after Latin class, sit and watch the patterns spin stone by stone, black and white, surrounding territory, defending, turning inside out with a few good moves, territory that seemed surely white’s surrounded, turned to black’s. Then I’d watch the players one middle-aged, polished as a stone, easy motion showed years of practice. When I played once, he said Go. Go. Keep going! The other player a would-be hero with all paths blocked besides the game but wise at that, beyond his years. We started talking, then kissing. When I brought him to a party, someone asked, Where did you find him? I said, Under a tree. II Fall, 2016 Fifty years later, the game’s leapt off the board. It’s all about territory — land, water, sky… Is it one game or a thousand? Take one: Standing Rock, heart of the world, a thousand water protectors from all tribes, journalists, movie stars, elders, women, men, youth, chant, drum, pray to protect their sacred lands, river, burial sites from the Dakota Access Pipeline. The Great Missouri Basin is at stake. When did things turn inside out? A rider on a white horse stands against a line of dark police in riot gear. Which is black and which is white? Police and army white, attackers, in spite of the black oil, with “gaze blank and pitiless as the sun” (if you could see it through the masks and armor). Protectors black, defenders, in spite of the white horse — black earth, dark water. Police set down their line of stones, defend “their” territory with rubber bullets, dogs who draw blood, water cannons in freezing weather, arrest protectors chanting, drumming, praying — for trespassing. The land’s unceded — which side’s putting down stones on stolen land? * * * What can prayers do against near-murderous intent? But then the buffalo! Charging out of nowhere — stones for black — reminder that a few well-placed black stones can turn things inside out. The Army says, the protectors have to leave. (Maybe they couldn’t keep their Darth Vader guards out in winter storms?) Games of Go don’t end till the board is filled or one side’s stones are gone. Two thousand veterans come, form a human shield, make formal, ceremonial apology to the First Nations. Go, go, keep going! The President decrees delay. The Army ends the easement. The land is damaged, some burial sites churned up. But the black snake hasn’t crossed the water. For now, the protectors stand on their unceded land. Their bodies are the stones. III A different president, convinced he’s the only stone on the board, signs an order: the pipeline will go forward. What’s left of game gives way to iron in the soul. Some protectors withdraw to private land. Before they go, they burn the tipis, what’s left of Standing Rock, in ceremonial sacred fire. Some stay, knowing arrest will follow. Bitter day, cold, washed with frozen tears. Someone writes: Not the end, but the beginning of a revolution.

Poets Resist is published by Glass Poetry Press.
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