But I know it exists.
The Smithsonian keeps such photos locked away from us.
The United States wants all of us to forget the crimes it committed against the indigenous.
The United States wants us to forget.
The United States wants us to forget.
The United States wants us to forget.
A non-Native friend said, “Native Americans were the victims of genocide. So why isn’t there a Museum of the Native American Genocide?”
And I said, “Because we Indians would spend years arguing about whose tribe suffered the worst massacre.”
112.
Security Clearance
AFTER I’D AGREED to teach a writing workshop in a women’s prison, I received an application in the mail that asked me to “list the names of any relatives or close associates who have served or are currently serving time in correctional facilities anywhere in the world.”
I thought of my father and brother and uncles and reservation friends and cousins who’d been inmates. Then I called an official number. I was transferred, put on hold, ignored, interrogated, dismissed, and finally I was helped.
“So I’m supposed to list all of the people I know, or are related to, who have been in jail or prison?” I asked the friendly clerk.
“Yes,” he said.
“Even the ones I haven’t seen in years? Or decades?”
“Well, it’s safer to answer as completely as possible.”
“What if they’re dead?”
“Put them down and write ‘Deceased’ by their names.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “You’re sure I need to put all of them?”
“That’s what I advise,” he said. “And what kind of crimes are we talking about here?”
“Murder and attempted murder,” I said. “Rape, child rape. Assault. Robbery. Drug possession and drug dealing. Domestic violence. Forgery. Failure to appear in court. Failure to pay criminal fines. Contempt of court. Theft. Public intoxication. Driving while intoxicated.”
“Wow,” the clerk said. “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”
“Two speeding tickets,” I said. “One in nineteen eighty-nine, and one in two thousand eight.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, I’m the rebel of the family.”
I again looked down at the small space where I was supposed to supply the required information about my convict family.
“You know,” I said. “There’s not enough room on the application to list everybody.”
“You can put them on a separate sheet,” he said. “And attach it to the application.”
“Are you sure it’s okay to do that?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he said. “Some people have attached two additional pages.”
“Wow,” I said, and laughed.
Then I said my good-byes and, as a long-distance and complete nonparticipant in a one-page indigenous criminal clan, I listed all of those felons who share at least some of my genetics.
It took me approximately an hour.
113.
Ode to Gray
Has anybody written an ode to gray?
Well, if not, then let me be the first. Let me praise The charcoal pit, tweed suit, and cloudy X-ray
That reveals, to your amateur dismay,
Nothing you understand. Who has been amazed Enough to write a breathy love song to gray and gray’s
Nearly imperceptible interplay
With other grays? Oh, how beautiful the haze Of charcoal pits, tweed suits, and cloudy X-rays
Of airport luggage. I love the dog day, The long delay, the existential malaise.
Has anybody written an ode to gray?
If not, then let me proceed without delay.
Oh, let me construct an army made of clay.
Marching, marching, they will be my ode to gray, To charcoal pit, tweed suit, and cloudy X-ray.
114.
Tyrannosaurus Rez
Yes, I’ve survived
All of the genocidal shit that killed So many in my tribe,
And it is absurd
That I’ve made a great career Out of nouns and verbs,
But, look,
It’s a miracle when any writer Sells even one damn book.
So listen to me: I was conceived With twenty thousand years Of my ancestors’ stories
Locked in my gray matter And flooding my marrow.
So don’t think I’m flattered
With your homily
About how I must be
Some kind of anomaly.
I am my mother’s son.
I am my father’s child.
And they left me a trust fund
Of words, words, and words That exist in me
Like dinosaurs live in birds.
115.
Objectify
“Desire is the inconvenience of its object.
Lourdes isn’t Lourdes if you live in Lourdes.”
—Don Paterson, Best Thought, Worst Thought
How often have I walked through my front door And forgotten to exult? Why won’t I roar For all of the objects that I adore?
When did I stop praising the books I hoard And the bookcases, lovingly restored?
Why do I ignore the baskets and gourds?
O Lord, let my love for things be reborn.
Let me sanctify my hand drums, adorned With feather, paint, and bead. Let me drum for The star quilts piled on the beds and floors.
I own so much yet want for so much more.
Why do I greet the sacred with my scorn?
From this day forward, let us be forewarned: Lourdes isn’t Lourdes if you live in Lourdes.
116.
My Mother as Wolf
Reintroduced into the wilderness, my mother Struggles to remember what Her wolf ancestors knew in their DNA—
and here, just as this poem begins, I have to tell you that when that first stanza originally popped into my head, I dropped into a fugue state that had me flying through the universe while dodging planets and suns. This flying-through-the-universe thing had previously happened only when I tried to meditate. Whether guided by teachers or during some half-assed attempts of my own, I’d never been able to calm myself and empty my mind. Instead, moments into any attempts to meditate, I’d fly with light speed through the endless dark. I’d be awed by the beauty of the universe and terrified by the isolation. Some friends tell me that I might have been in a meditative state anyway. I don’t believe it because I’d fly for only a minute or two before I’d fall asleep. So I think I might have been disassociating instead of meditating. Maybe I’m too terrified to let go of this terrifying world. Maybe I’m just sleep-deprived. I often get sleepy during moments of stress. I could fall asleep during a gunfight. Sounds like disassociating, right? And it seems to me that disassociating is the opposite of meditating—
Reintroduced into the wilderness, my mother Struggles to remember what Her wolf ancestors knew in their DNA—