seattle, 1987
This late in the 20th century
I cannot look at a lake
without wondering what's beneath it:
drowned horses
snapping turtles
cities of protected bones.
Yesterday, the sun rose
so quickly on cable television
I thought it a new day beginning
but it was just another camera trick.
How the heart changes
when this city fills with strange animals
the reservation never predicted
animals formed by the absence of song.
Downtown today, a street magician
so clumsy I fell in love
and threw a dollar bill into his top hat.
There are so many illusions I need to believe.
1979
If you hear the radio playing out my door, stop, listen, come in and visit.
We can drink old coffee, a beer, eat fry bread with too much butter. Tonight our excesses will be forgiven.
You and I can talk and laugh, remember the old stories, the old people we only remember when you and I talk together.
We can lie about the length of our braids, lie about all the Indian women we danced with at the last powwow.
I wasn't even at the last powwow, but you don't know that for sure. you weren't there, either.
It gets cold at night sooner in the year when I live off the reservation. I build fires in September.
If you hear the radio playing out my door, come in and we'll sit together. We'll watch the air between us. We'll smile at the sound of our breathing.