13/16
1.
I cut myself into sixteen equal pieces
keep thirteen and feed the other three
to the dogs, who have also grown
tired of U.S. Commodities, white cans
black letters translated into Spanish.
"Does this mean I have to learn
the language to eat?" Lester FallsApart asks
but directions for preparation are simple:
a. WASH CAN; b. OPEN CAN; c. EXAMINE CONTENTS
OF CAN FOR SPOILAGE; d. EMPTY CONTENTS
OF CAN INTO SAUCE PAN; e. COOK CONTENTS
OVER HIGH HEAT; f. SERVE AND EAT.
2.
It is done by blood, reservation mathematics, fractions:
father (full-blood) + mother (5/8) = son (13/16).
It is done by enrollment number, last name first, first name last:
Spokane Tribal Enrollment Number 1569; Victor, Chief.
It is done by identification card, photograph, lamination:
IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO SPOKANE TRIBE OF INDIANS, WELLPINIT, WA.
3.
The compromise is always made
in increments. On this reservation
we play football on real grass
dream of deserts, three inches of rain
in a year. What we have lost:
uranium mine, Little Falls Dam
salmon. Our excuses are trapped
within museums, roadside attractions
totem poles in Riverfront Park.
I was there, watching the Spokane River
changing. A ten-year-old white boy asked
if I was a real Indian. He did not wait
for an answer, instead carving his initials
into the totem with a pocketknife: J.N.
We are what we take, carving my name
my enrollment number, thirteen hash marks
into the wood. A story is remembered
as evidence, the Indian man they found dead
shot in the alley behind the Mayfair.
Authorities reported a rumor he had relatives
in Minnesota. A member of some tribe or another
his photograph on the 11 o'clock news. Eyes, hair
all dark, his shovel-shaped incisor, each the same
ordinary indentification of the anonymous.
4.
When my father disappeared, we found him
years later, in a strange kitchen searching
for footprints in the dust: still
untouched on the shelves all the commodity
cans without labels—my father opened them
one by one, finding a story in each.
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Hi Friends,
Today's poem is by Sherman Alexie, from his first collection of poems and vignettes This Business of Fancydancing (1992).
April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out
my own selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. To
learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more
official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.
—Ellen
Labels: NPM