Summary: An early poem.<br> “Oklahoma”<br> Ernest Hemingway<br> All of the Indians are dead<br> (A good Indian is a dead Indian)<br> Or riding in motor cars—<br> (the oil lands, you know, they’re all rich)<br> Smoke smarts my eyes,<br> Cottonwood twigs and buffalo dung<br> Smoke grey in the teepee—<br> (Or is it myopic trachoma)<br> The prairies are long,<br> The moon rises,<br> Ponies<br> Drag at their pickets.<br> The grass has gone brown in the summer—<br> (or is the hay crop failing)<br> Pull an arrow out:<br> If you break it<br> The wound closes.<br> Salt is good too<br> And wood ashes.<br> Pounding it throbs in the night—<br> (or is it the gonorrhea)<br>
