After Eugene was shot and killed, my father took me to the outdoor basketball court on the rez. We silently shot hoops for hours. That was how my father mourned with me. I felt so much pain that I thought I might shoot basketballs forever, and I think my father would have kept shooting forever, too.
As I sat in my basement bedroom, it felt like I might weep forever. And, after I had wept for hours, my mother opened my bedroom door and said, “Shut up, Junior. That’s enough crying.”
I stopped weeping.
My mother went back upstairs and sat on her couch directly above me.
I stopped weeping. But I stood on my bed and I screamed and punched the ceiling.
My mother sat directly above me. I stopped weeping. But I stood on my bed and I screamed and punched the ceiling.
My mother sat directly above me.
I punched that ceiling until my knuckles bled.
I think my mother still sits directly above me.
I think my knuckles are still bleeding.
I think I am still screaming.
52.
The Quilting
My mother made quilts.
She would sew instead of sleep And laugh at sunrise.
Cotton, denim, wool,
Needle, thread, scissors, thimble, Blister, callus, cut.
Square by square by square, My mother constructed quilts And sold them for food.
My mother made quilts With rheumatoid arthritis In her neck and hands.
A memory quilt
Contains pieces of your past Rejoined and renewed.
My mother made quilts.
She would sew instead of sleep And rage at sunrise.
When Elvis perished,
My mom wept and wrapped herself Inside a dark quilt.
Two hundred babies
Have slept beneath my mom’s quilts.
Ah, such tenderness!
How many babies
Were conceived on my mom’s quilts?
No one knows for sure.
My mother’s hands ached As she punched needles through wool, Denim, canvas, jute.
I own fourteen quilts That were built by my mother.
I use all of them.
My mom made a denim quilt That was too heavy to lift.
She cut it in half!
Quilt by quilt by quilt, My mom made enough money To pay the mortgage.
My mom’s arthritis
Turned her hands into cages That captured ten birds.
My mother made quilts.
She would sew instead of sleep And weep at sunrise.
We buried our mom
With a quilt she didn’t make.
We gave her a break!
She made her last quilt To honor a Native boy Heading to college.
If you want a quilt
Constructed by my mother Then you’re out of luck.
My mom never slept
Beneath a quilt that she made.
Or maybe she did!
A memory quilt
Is designed to remind you Of what you have lost.
I never sewed quilts.
My sisters made many quilts Alongside our mom.
My mother started
To make a quilt from my poems, But never finished.
As she made her quilts, My mother sang Christian hymns And old tribal songs.
My mother made quilts.
She would sew instead of sleep And sigh at sunrise.
She once made a quilt With thirty Jesus faces— The Shroud of Too Much.
My wife doesn’t quilt So we don’t have old fabric Piled in the garage.
I miss my mother.
I miss watching her make quilts.
Sewing was her art.
My dad only slept
On top of sheets and blankets Layered on his bed.
My mom only slept
Under many heavy quilts On the front room couch.
When Mom and Dad slept, They rarely shared the same bed Or the same warm quilt.
My mom’s arthritis
Turned her hands into fires Fed by ten dry twigs.
How long do quilts last?
I think they’ve discovered quilts In a pharaoh’s tomb.
My mother made quilts.
She would sew instead of sleep And mourn at sunrise.
How many coffins
Have been draped with my mom’s quilts?
Too many to count.
When old quilts tattered, My mother would repair them— The Quilt Whisperer!
Square by square by square, My mother constructed quilts And sold them for wood.
Always cold, my mom
Often walked around the house Quilted like a queen.
Even wrapped in quilts, My mother kept our small house Burning like the sun.
In flames, we kids kicked Aside our quilts and thirsted And desiccated.
Square by square by square, My mom also abandoned And ignored her quilts.
Ah, that poor half-quilt Can only make a half-ghost That haunts half of us.
A memory quilt
Is constructed with dark things You’d rather forget.
I think I was raped
On one of my mother’s quilts.
But my eyes were closed.
Wrapped in my mom’s quilts, I wept after funerals For so many friends.
When my big sister died, I wanted to gather quilts And burn all of them.
My mother made quilts.
She would sew instead of sleep And collapse at dawn.
Square by square by square, She punched anger through our skin And turned us into quilts.
Wrapped around our mom, We quilts absorbed her anger And her fear and pain.
Wrapped around our mom, We quilts absorbed her courage And her love and grace.
Square by square by square, We quilts honor our mother And her strange genius.
She taught us survival With needle, thread, and thimble All stained with her blood.
53.
Three Days
1.
Why is it that I never remember How to spell “resurrection”?
I have to Internet search
For the correct spelling every time.
2.
Three days after my mother’s death, She rolls the stone from her tomb And walks into my dreams.
Most people would insist that it’s actually her
Or her soul reaching out to me.
But I’m not a literalist. I know, Even as I’m dreaming,
That my subconscious is only fucking
With my conscious, or vice versa.
And, yet, as I dream of an ordinary day Where I take my sons to school, Grocery shop, drive through
For fast food, and browse a bookstore, My mother feels shockingly real As she follows me everywhere.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t touch.
She just follows me and follows me.
She’s in the backseat, smiling at me In the rearview mirror. She’s knocking Oranges and apples from the displays
In supermarkets. She’s the barista Making my coffee. She’s the hum Of the refrigerator. She’s that tree Heavy with crows. She follows me
Until the simple act of dropping Ice cubes into an empty glass Sounds like a thousand angels Screaming with grief and rage.
3.
Dear Mother, I am sorry
That I don’t believe
In your ghost. I am sorry
That you are a ghost.
Dear Mother, I would call out Your name, but I’m not the one Who made “resurrection” more Difficult to spell than “doubt.”
54.
Navigation
Hey, Smartphone, I’m lost. What am I supposed to do next?
—Dear Sherman, you must eventually forgive your mother. Don’t forget.
Wow, Smartphone, I don’t have the inner resources for that. Not yet.
—You better hurry. I’ve scheduled you for increasing amounts of regret.
Damn, Smartphone, that seems rather mean.
—Well, pal, just like me, Grief is a relentless machine.
So, Smartphone, does this journey have an ultimate destination?
—You might get somewhere, but it won’t be cause for celebration.
Okay, Smartphone, how do I take the first step? Then another?