In Seattle, a street magician fucks up.
He’s publicly performing a year too early.
A little girl shouts, “I can see your fake thumb!”
I hurry away from his embarrassment,
As I recall when I’ve gone public too early With intimations and declarations of love.
Who hasn’t been crushed by embarrassment?
I gave an awkward eulogy at my mother’s funeral;
It certainly wasn’t a declaration of love.
I delivered half-jokes, half-truths, and half-apologies.
My eulogy for my mother needed its own eulogy.
But my self-deprecation is just another form
Of narcissism, right? What kind of ass apologizes For his eulogy? I’m a magician fucking up his act.
And now I’ve gone public with my embarrassment As my dead mother shouts, “I can see your fake thumb.”
121.
Psalm of Myself
At my mother’s funeral, a stranger said,
“It hurts more to lose your mother than your father.”
At first, I scoffed, “Oh, you never had the honor Of meeting my mom. She was army-ant intense.”
And yet, weeks after her funeral, I’m still swarmed By her memory’s teeth. I mean—it was easy To love my father. He always sought to appease.
He was addicted to surrendering. He harmed
Nobody. I don’t think he had one enemy.
But my mom? She waged war on everything that moved.
She indicted and convicted before she accused.
She mocked oxygen and scolded gravity.
And, yes, I’m aware of how much I resemble her.
I’m the child with all of her vanity and rage.
I’m the actor who needs and needs to take the stage And, with tender spite, seek to reassemble her.
But have I created her in my image? Am I playing God?
She belonged to herself and not to me. She birthed me, Not the other way around. She is my mortal deity.
To emulate her, I’ll be arrogant, angry, beautiful, and odd.
122.
Hunger Games
I crave grief for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Sweet grief, salted grief, I want so much To swallow you whole. I’m a damn sinner
Who can only be saved by your fingers.
Hurry, place the sacred grief on my tongue And consecrate breakfast, lunch, and dinner—
Or maybe not. I wish I were slimmer
And more disciplined—a secular monk.
But I lust, lust, and lust. I’m a sinner
Who seeds, threshes, harvests, feasts, and shivers.
Forgive me. Condemn me. I need flesh and blood And grief at each breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I want to want too much. I know what hinders and troubles you. But join me in this flood.
Look at me. I’m your beloved sinner.
Sit with me, please. Let’s talk. Please. Linger.
Let’s touch and eat everything that we touch.
Let us stay through breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Let’s become each other’s favorite sinner.
123.
Communal
THIRTEEN MONTHS AFTER my mother died, my sister texted me that her refrigerator had finally given up.
“It’s leaking everywhere,” she texted. “We unplugged it. And all the food is in plastic coolers with ice.”
That dead refrigerator was in the kitchen of my childhood home on the reservation. Our family home. Then our mother’s home after our father died. And now, my sister and niece’s home.
I remembered that I bought the refrigerator maybe ten or twelve years earlier, not long after my father had died.
My sisters live on low-paying jobs and disability checks. They long ago destroyed their credit ratings, so they can’t buy a refrigerator all at once or in monthly payments.
“Send me the dimensions of the old fridge,” I texted back to my sister. “And I will order you a new one from Sears.”
A few moments later, my sister texted, “64 inches high, 29 inches wide, 31 inches deep.”
I scanned the Sears website for good deals on fridges, for one that would fit the space and had an ice maker. I was goofily happy to think of an ice-making refrigerator in my childhood home. It felt like an earned extravagance.
But ice-making fridges cost over $1,000. I could have afforded that, but I didn’t want to spend that much money. I’ve often had to financially rescue my siblings and parents over the years. I resent it sometimes—being the family hero—but I deal with my resentment by setting limits.
So I bought an Amana that cost only $600. And I texted my sister and suggested she get some cousin to pick it up from Sears in Spokane. Otherwise, it would cost me another $200 to have it delivered to the reservation.
“Okay,” my sister texted. “Can you send me gas money for whoever picks it up?”
“Okay,” I texted, and transferred cash to her bank account. “There’s money for all of you. Split it evenly. And pay somebody to get the fridge.”
A week later, my sister texted me a photo of the new refrigerator, looking rather Darth Vaderesque, wedged into the space where the old fridge had been.
“Thank you,” my sister texted. “Everything cold is cold. And everything frozen is frozen.”
I realized the new fridge resembled a new coffin or a large black tombstone. I realized that I’d never have to send emergency cash to my dead mother ever again. I’d never have to rescue her from her poor financial decisions—from the poverty she’d created for herself and for the poverty forced upon her.
But I know I will be rescuing my siblings until all of them are dead—or until I’m dead.
“My doctor ordered me to only eat food that grows or walks,” my sister texted me a few days later. “Healthy food is so expensive.”
“I’ll send you some green to buy greens,” I texted her. “Some lettuce to buy lettuce. So you can become a skinny rez rabbit.”
Except I typed “rabbi” instead of “rabbit.” A funny mistake.
“Can a woman be a rabbi?” my sister texted me back with a smiling emoji.
“Yes,” I texted back. “That’s one of the cooler things about Jewish cultures. Women can be spiritual leaders. A woman was president of Israel.”
“I think Mom was like a rabbi,” my sister texted.
“Ha,” I texted back. “But remember she lost by twenty votes when she ran for Tribal Council.”
It was a close election. I thought of Hillary Clinton and her close loss to Donald Trump. Our tribe survived the man who defeated our mother. I don’t know if our country will survive Trump.
“I looked up ‘rabbi’ online,” my sister said. “It means ‘teacher.’”
Was our mother a teacher? Was she holy?
I think so. I’m not sure. Maybe.
So I texted her old cell phone. I didn’t know if her number had already been assigned in the months since her death. I didn’t know who might receive my text. So, in not knowing its destination, it felt like a prayer.
“How sacred were you?” I texted my mother’s ghost.
I am still waiting for a response.
124.
Your Theology or Mine?