indian summer
It was the summer of grasshoppers
and Sleep, sleep
all my father could say
was Sleep, sleep.
​
The ponies couldn't run down by the church
their tongues licked and licked the air.
​
My brother told me They're catching salt
but I didn't bel9ieve him, wouldn't believe
ever since he said the sun could change its mind
​
and I woke up early for a week, still in the dark
and watched the sun rise from the west constantly.
​
It was the summer of battered grass
and empty taps. NO WATER, NO WATER
except in the uranium river
where Billy Nomad broke his neck
diving into the shallows.
​
The old school caught fire
and no one noticed
until it jumped from brick to pine
from pine to pine, from pine to skin.
My hair bled ash.
​
It was the summer of the continual powwow
and Ernie Game never wore a shirt or socks
but still managed enough gas money to get back home.
​
Some Skin was always bouncing a basketball
over pavement, against ceiling and walls.
Once, I followed the sound, triangulated position
but could never find its source.
​
There have been smaller mysteries.
​
It was the summer of unbraided hair
and Hush now! You ask too many questions
when I wondered why Indians always die by threes.
​
One, like a divining rod bent down to the ground.
Two, like a quilt imperfectly patched.
Three, like the sky folding over its horizon.