I thought for once I could write a happy poem
absent burning rage and righteous anger;
happy rocks and cheerful water,
the colors of the desert reflected
In my own skin – I am
an Indian on Indian land and maybe
not my Indian land, but
better than nothing,
right?
I may not be brown enough or poor enough
For everyone around me
To choke and remember
whose land this is
but my soul had the grit of
patience that makes
injustice digestible,
allows you to live
or at least coexist with
the same thing you fight.
And for a moment being here
on this Indian land is like
reading Sherman Alexie, like
slicing though root vegetables with a sharp knife,
the smell of hand parched manoomin
listening to Buffy St. Marie or
smoked salmon.
I simply felt complete until
you ask me, do I suppose these trees
were around
when the Indians
lived here.
I wish a thousand things.
I wish I was Lenelle Moise,
I wish I has
steel-spiked ovaries and combat boots.
I wish I had erupted,
matched your ignorance pound for pound with
outrage, spewed truth all over your
self-indulgent smile.
I wish that when you looked at me,
the very image
seared your retinas like the sun
with the image of Crazy Horse;
that my appearance gave you nightmares
about boarding schools;
that my very presence made
your teeth ache and your
feet itch.
I wish I looked brown enough
for you to see me as Indian
even though I know
if you saw me
as Indian
you wouldn’t see me
at all.
