because my mother continues to scare the shit out of me. On a morning soon after her death, my phone rang. The caller ID announced it was “MOM.” For a moment, I believed it was her calling from the afterlife. So I pondered what I would say. And I decided that I’d go with “Hey, Lillian, gotta say I’m impressed with your resurrection, but is it a Jesus thing or a zombie fling?” Of course, it wasn’t my mother. It was my sister calling me from our mother’s house. “Dang,” I said to my sister. “I really thought you were Mom come back to life.” And my sister said, “I know what you mean. This morning, I made her a cup of coffee and set it on the table and wondered why she hadn’t drunk it yet.”
Dear Mother, My jury,
As you travel Into the nocturnal,
As you continue To make me hold My breath
Even after your death,
Could it be That you’ve finally And strangely Become maternal?
34.
Equine
At my mother’s funeral, I learned the three horses
Who’d escaped their barn years ago have transformed—
Have lightninged and thundered—
Into a wild herd of 400.
O wild horses, O wild horses, as you run,
I hope that my mother has become 401.
35.
Feast
AFTER WE BURIED my mother, we feasted. Dozens of people sat in the tribal longhouse and ate venison stew, salmon, and fry bread. Hot dogs and hamburgers. Kool-Aid and soda pop. Apple and cherry pie.
My cousin the logger said, “Junior, I wish I saw you somewhere except funerals.”
I smiled. He was right. I was a stranger to him.
“Did you kill this deer I’m eating?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Thank you for hunting,” I said.
“Thank the deer,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Bless you. And bless the deer.”
“You should come hunting with us next time.”
I thought he was serious—and tried to imagine hobbling with my bad back through the pine forests in search of a deer or elk—but then my cousin laughed and laughed.
“Little Sherm the Great Indian Hunter!” he proclaimed.
I laughed and laughed with him and ate two more bowls of venison stew.
36.
Utensil
While feasting
On venison stew
After we buried my mother, I recognized my spoon
And realized my family Had been using it
For at least forty-two years.
How does one commemorate
The ordinary? I thanked The spoon for being a spoon And finished my stew.
How does one get through
A difficult time? How does A son properly mourn his mother?
It helps to run the errands— To get shit done. I washed
That spoon, dried it,
And put it back
In the drawer,
But I did it consciously,
Paying attention
To my hands, my wrists, And the feel of steel
Against my fingertips.
Then my wife drove us back Home to Seattle, where I wrote This poem about ordinary Grief. Thank you, poem,
For being a poem. Thank you, Paper and ink, for being paper And ink. Thank you, desk, For being a desk. Thank you,
Mother, for being my mother.
Thank you for your imperfect love.
It almost worked. It mostly worked.
Or partly worked. It was almost enough.
37.
Sibling Rivalry
Yes, my mother was a better mother
To my sisters and brothers,
But they were better children
Than me, the prodigal who yearned
And spurned and never returned.
38.
Eulogy
My mother was a dictionary.
She was one of the last fluent speakers of our tribal language.
She knew dozens of words that nobody else knew.
When she died, we buried all of those words with her.
My mother was a dictionary.
She knew words that had been spoken for thousands of years.
She knew words that will never be spoken again.
She knew songs that will never be sung again.
She knew stories that will never be told again.
My mother was a dictionary.
My mother was a thesaurus,
My mother was an encyclopedia.
My mother never taught her children the tribal language.
Oh, she taught us how to count to ten.
Oh, she taught us how to say “I love you.”
Oh, she taught us how to say “Listen to me.”
And, of course, she taught us how to curse.
My mother was a dictionary.
She was one of the last four speakers of the tribal language.
In a few years, the last surviving speakers, all elderly, will also be gone.
There are younger Indians who speak a new version of the tribal language.
But the last old-time speakers will be gone.
My mother was a dictionary.
But she never taught me the tribal language.
And I never demanded to learn.
My mother always said to me, “English will be your best weapon.”
She was right, she was right, she was right.
My mother was a dictionary.
When she died, her children mourned her in English.
My mother knew words that had been spoken for thousands of years.
Sometimes, late at night, she would sing one of the old songs.
She would lullaby us with ancient songs.
We were lullabied by our ancestors.
My mother was a dictionary.
I own a cassette tape, recorded in 1974.
On that cassette, my mother speaks the tribal language.
She’s speaking the tribal language with her mother, Big Mom.
And then they sing an ancient song.
I haven’t listened to that cassette tape in two decades.
I don’t want to risk snapping the tape in some old cassette player.
And I don’t want to risk letting anybody else transfer that tape to digital.
My mother and grandmother’s conversation doesn’t belong in the cloud.
That old song is too sacred for the Internet.
So, as that cassette tape deteriorates, I know that it will soon be dead.
Maybe I will bury it near my mother’s grave.
Maybe I will bury it at the base of the tombstone she shares with my father.
Of course, I’m lying.
I would never bury it where somebody might find it.
Stay away, archaeologists! Begone, begone!
My mother was a dictionary.
She knew words that have been spoken for thousands of years.
She knew words that will never be spoken again.
I wish I could build tombstones for each of those words.
Maybe this poem is a tombstone.
My mother was a dictionary.
She spoke the old language.
But she never taught me how to say those ancient words.
She always said to me, “English will be your best weapon.”
She was right, she was right, she was right.
39.
Drum
AM I DANCING on my mother’s grave?
Well, my mother would have loved to be the subject of a memoir, no matter how laudatory and/or critical. Or rather, if the memoir were equally positive and negative. She would have loved all of the attention. She would have sat beside me in bookstores and signed copies of this book.
And, if she could do it from the afterlife, my mother would schedule a giant powwow on her grave.
“Okay, folks, welcome to the Seventeenth Annual Lillian Alexie Gravesite Powwow. Every song at this powwow will be a Special for Lillian. Every Grand Entry, Owl Dance, Blanket Dance, and Happy Dance will be for Lillian. And, yes, the venerable Prairie Chicken Dance will also be for Lillian. Okay, next drum is the Lillian Alexie Memorial Singers. This song will be an Intertribal. That means everybody gets to dance. Even you white people. Yes, that means all of you white people will also be dancing for Lillian. So, okay, Lillian Alexie Memorial Singers, whenever you’re ready, you can take it away!”
Am I dancing on my mother’s grave?
Of course I am!
Now shut up and listen to the song.
You need to two-step, two-step, two-step, two-step with the drum’s rhythm. But ain’t nobody gonna judge you if you miss a beat.