Our People

Our people trace to the Algonquin
with our singing syllables
and deer-skinned legs;
we were of the great Turtle Clan
—the formers of the earth

those who spit blue
gray clouds, the wind
the green of the forest
the flow of the lakes
the Twelve Tribes of the Nation
half-awake now, wanderers
our souls fallen
as the leaf,
fickle as the child lost

like the dog.

Martinique

I ask you to imagine
The sea in Martinique. A man is looking at the ocean.
While here, beside an overpass, an old man’s trying
To climb some steps; the railing's like a lifeline.
Imagine it’s the time line
Of his biography. Below him, in the sunshine,
A couple huddles on the grass.
That was him, he thinks, when he thought things would last.
Was he right? He was, alas,
But also deadly wrong. What matters is, amass
Enough raw material, brick by brick,
Since everything can vanish in a second. Click.
The couple’s looking up—at what?
A plane? Photographer? His shadow’s caught
In the bright geometry
Of concrete, asphalt, steel, the dizzy
Upside down imbalance.
It’s hard to take in at one glance.
The dark will soon increase,
The ocean air get chilly, traffic cease.
Everyone goes away. Even the photographer
Will get a diagnosis, and six months later
Die of colon cancer.
No light left, nothing else to see.
And no real answer.

Sorrow Binds to Flesh

Don’t sass me with those tepid eyes;
bitches are forever. Tempted as I am
to scrawl your epitaph, I’ll wait till
the courts decide I’m not a threat.
Dignity is the leftover marrow you
regurgitate when the meal is love.
Make soup from my bones like
Koreans do with duck. You have the
recipe. It calls for patience. Who are
you to separate my anger from
defense? No longer valetudinarian,
I uprise, I paralyze, I mesmerize.
Beware skeletons offering quick,
convenient fixes. They’re parasites
in turnip suits out to make a quick
buck. Sorrow is the laughter your
soul reaps for comfort.

Coat Hook

I flick the cicada
latched to the garage door
frame with a few broom straws.
The army green airman
sputters to life and motors the dark
morning air. As much as I love
my life, it can be saddening
to wake up in the morning. I knew a man
who would smile at himself
a full five minutes in the bathroom mirror.
Imagine: teeth bared, deadlocked
in your own stare, your own wrinkled eyes,
a full five minutes. My eyes
land, for the first time, on a golden coat hook
screwed into the ceiling
of the laundry room. Weird.
On the tile floor, blade tips of grass
my little brother cuts for a living.
No matter the forecast, he can convince himself
storm clouds are going to pass
east of us or west. Just for fun,
I hang the utility lighter by its trigger guard. 

Turn left

Turn right

Flee towards the exit!