Ed. Note: The following is the third in a series of excerpts from “IRL,” a long poem.
I’m loafing
with the great poets
of tomorrow. Fireworks
pop fizz in all directions
but being in a backyard
surrounded by brownstones
you only get the thunder
and the shudder—war outside
the walls but we’ve liquor n
Mariah n we’re poets
so we talk about temporal
locations of audio-trauma
and we talk about
margaritas. We blab about
the battle from the backyard.
Language is history—poly-
phony of conquest. So
is absence of language.
Junction. Waiting for the
right word to emerge
out of the pool Little
Mermaid style, hair flip arc
of water—Grandma presses
her forehead, small hand against
the back window of the
government van her parents
disappear in a cloud of red
dirt—swifted from the rez stroke
of legislation, to be Civilized.
They cut her hair,
forbid her from speaking
Kumeyaay, forbid heathen
religion say everything
she knows is wrong profane
she is wrong profane her
body her face her voice her
language the crinkle
in the corner of her eyes
when kitty chases a dust
bunny. All of it wrong. Kill
the Indian, Save the Man Sow
a shame so deep it arrives
when I do, it waits for me.
It pours me a drink. Txts
me. One day she stops
eating. One night she steals
an onion from one
of the nuns tells me it’s
the sweetest thing she ever
tasted. She wastes away.
Confounded, the school sends
her home. Boarding schools
are not supposed to have
mortality rates. Grandma survives
a little, but not everything Kumeyaay
is not gifted to my dad
for fear it’ll be ripped
from him with the same swift
She makes it back but
not everything makes it back
home. I search for it in a poem.
Clarissa says you’re sick
and still comin to school?
She looks down into me
her glasses slide halfway
down the bridge of her
nose. We wait
for the bus. I say I have
a test. She says oh uh huh
slides her glasses up.
They rest. She downs a mini
booze, wipes her mouth
with the sleeve of her red
flannel Nobody comes
to school for no test. Who
you got a crush on, aaayyy?
My dermatologist sighs. Oh
what we did to the poor
Native Americans. Now they
got a raw deal. She looks into
me for recognition. Chantal
says some white ppl want
racial scolding, n the thot
of that makes me withholding.
Some ppl want scolding.
Others never really seem
to reflect at all
elbow along,
accumulating. I’m
shamed. Suggesting reflexive.
This requires a ton
of voices, attenuation to part-
icular waves of thought. Crash-
Crashing. Crashing. Crash-
Crashing. Crash-Cashing Crash-
Crash-Crashing-Crash-
Crash. What if we just sat here
looked into owl ocean and didn’t hate
ourselves. Looked into the spoon-
fuls of light n they shined
back. That’s part of the problem,
wanting all that shine. Yr
just getting older, everyone
does, then doesn’t. I’m loaf-
ing with the great poets
of tomorrow, backyard
gazpacho 4th of July style.
There are fireworks but we
keep looking at each other
which is better than just looking
at ourselves. Can’t stop
the latch of my mouth
busted can’t stop laughing,
learn to moon-
walk, enjoy fresh
watermelon cilantro margs,
sly swipe for texts
I’m not getting.
The fireworks start
the building Yesterday I
learned how to moon-
walk. Today I ate
a whole pie for lunch.
I am a pattern maker.
Some lines stop.
Some ppl make strides,
others wait until pain
is life-threatening
before getting the infection
taken care of. Some ppl
pass away. Nalini says
moon-
walking is a swiping optical
illusion. I keep falling
over. It’s pretty audacious
to take a step b/c yr
always stepping on some-
thing. Heaving in a direction
instead of chin tap calculation.
____________________________
Image: “Marco Polo” by Cat Glennon.
