Okay, here are the six worst things that have happened to me:
1. Comic Book Swap
2. Butter Knives
3. St. Ignatius
4. _______
5. Lungs
6. Top Ten Toys
You’ll notice that I listed only five things. I left one blank to account for the blank spots in my memory—for the sour relief of repression. You’ll also notice that my list is vaguely metaphorical or metaphorically vague. You didn’t really think I was going to give away everything, did you? This is a confessional poem, not a church confessional.
Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace.
When I was three, my big sister ran away and became a teenage mother. By the way, my big sister’s name was Mary.
There’s a photograph of Mary and me playing dueling grand pianos.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Did you really believe that a reservation Indian family would have even one grand piano? And if there is a reservation Indian family out there who does have a grand piano, then please mail me a photograph care of Shocked to Shit, Seattle, WA.
4.
Parked outside my therapist’s office, I watched another therapist attempt to parallel park. When you grow up on a rural reservation, you only have to park parallel to the earth, so I was impressed as she parked skillfully in a very narrow space. But I guess it wasn’t quite parallel enough, so she pulled out of the space and tried again. And again. I thought she parked well, but she thought otherwise. She parked, pulled out, parked, pulled out, parked, and pulled out for at least ten minutes. Finally, she parked in a way that pleased her. Or maybe she just abandoned the effort. But as she stepped out of her car and walked toward her office, I thought, “Damn, I want that one to be my therapist.”
Two pills every day. The side effects are, well, interesting.
Three of the side effects: The urge to write prose poems; self-consciousness; night sweats.
I wake four times a night. Drenched in sweat. Sheets soaked. Pillow like a life preserver in Lake Sad-Ass.
Awake at 5 a.m., a full hour before most of the country, I pretend that I’m the only Indian who has survived genocide. It feels strangely familiar. I realize that every Indian often feels like he or she is the only Indian who has survived.
Today, as I walked around downtown Seattle, I studied strangers’ faces and wondered what six most horrible things had happened to each of them.
5.
These are six worst things that have happened to people I know: Filmed while being gang-raped by a group of men wearing paper bags for masks; lost four sons in four separate car wrecks; lost mother to heart attack and then, during her funeral, lost father to heart attack; contracted AIDS while having sex for the first time; lost husband and three sons in the same plane wreck; lost mother to cancer and daughter to house fire in the same month.
Is there a cure for grief? Is there a cure for grief? Is there a cure for grief? Is there a cure for grief? Is there a cure for grief?
Be funny. Be funny. Be funny. Be funny.
Humor is a crutch. Humor is a crutch. Humor is a crutch.
Who are the two funniest human beings who have ever lived? Richard Pryor before he caught himself on fire while freebasing cocaine, and Richard Pryor after he caught himself on fire while freebasing cocaine.
One flame.
6.
One more flame.
People always said that Big Sister and I could have been twins. I’m lying. My sister and I looked nothing alike, and she was born thirteen years before me.
My other sisters, twins, are only one year younger than me. You could call us Irish triplets if we happened to be Irish. It’s cute, but frankly, I prefer to be symbiotically connected with my dead sibling.
The fourth word of the Bible, King James Version, is “God.” The fourth word of the Bible, New American Version, is “when.”
When, God, when? When, God, when? When, God, when? When, God, when? When, God, when?
When I was six years old, I had an epileptic seizure while playing king of the hill on a woodpile, collapsed, rolled down the logs, and landed on the grass. I don’t know what happened to my sister when she was six. I barely know anything about my sister’s life, but I do know at least six things about her death.
106.
How Does My Highly Indigenous Family
Relate to My
Literary Fame?
HOME ON THE reservation, back from his colonoscopy in Spokane, my big brother texted me: “Dad used 2 say he knew you were famous when he found yr books at Goodwill. But I say yr famous when the ass nurse is asking me how I like havin a famous brother.”
107.
Will the Big Seattle Earthquake Trigger a Tsunami the Size
of God?
I have placed a big canoe on the roof.
Inside that boat: water, rope, airtight food,
First-aid kit, waterproof clothes, blankets, Boots, fire starters, and my mother’s ghost.
To access the roof from inside our home, tall And narrow, there’s a ladder in the hall
Closet near the bathroom on the third floor.
It’s a collapsible ladder hung on the door.
To break the window glass, plaster, and joists, I’ve got a hammer with steel points
And my mother’s ghost. She’ll protect my eyes From every sharp and falling surprise.
I thought of purchasing a real gun,
Or a weapon that only gassed or stunned,
But didn’t want that danger in my home, No matter how useful. My mother’s ghost,
Armed with over five centuries of grief, Will repel post-disaster assholes and thieves.
Dear family and friends, dear blood, dear you, I will paddle in the night to your rescue.
Look for me. I’ll be in the endless boat Illuminated by my mother’s ghost.
108.
How Are You?
I’m honored by your concern. I would like To gather all of the books that contain The words “mother” and “grief,” set them aflame, And dance as they burn. I’m sleeping okay,
Five or six hours at night, then two naps During the day. I want to sledgehammer Every truck in a ten-block radius,
Push them into the lake, and build a reef
That will be named Mother-Grief on the map.
I’m overeating but I always eat
Too much, so I think I’m overeating At my usual pace. Study my face.
I’ve always looked more like my father, but This morning, I woke to see my mother In the mirror. Grief is a plastic surgeon.
I’m not hiding from the world. I’ve seen
My psychiatrist three times in three weeks.
I remembered to put gas in my car.
There’s an undiscovered animal perched In that big tree in our backyard. It glows,
Has bluish claws and feathers, and sings old Evangelical hymns. All my neighbors Have tattooed my mother’s name on their wrists.
I twisted my ankle while cooking brown rice
And chicken with habanero pepper.
But I think clumsiness is normal
At a time like this. My left eyelid twitches But that’s just stress. I bought a telescope
To distract myself by studying stars And discovered a new constellation.