Unclaimed | Poems
by Sherman Alexie
Ode to Powdered Milk
Let’s pretend that we ground deer antler Into our glass and added river water. Let’s pretend that our legs doubled And we leapt from one side of the road To the other. Let’s pretend that we flocked And flew on luminous wings into the pearl Horizon. Let’s pretend that we’re wolves Drinking the moon. Let’s tremble and break And yearn. Let’s howl against the stars until They burst. Let’s slake and slake our glorious thirst.
Memorial
>When we read The obituaries page, We walk the rows Of a temporary Cemetery Where the rustle Of newspaper Is an honor song For the grief Of strangers.
The Atheist Believes in Eucharist
It’s graceful to imagine the bread and wine Have returned to the wheatfields and vines.
Arrhythmia
A drum protests the truce. A drum extols the war. A drum excites the landlord. A drum enrages the dancer. A drum comforts the hunter cat. A drum rebuffs the song birds. A drum starves the masses. A drum enriches the royals. A drum embraces the traitors A drum betrays the devoted. A drum exiles me like a mother. A drum embraces me like a despot. A drum ignores me like a father. A drum parches me like water.
The Last Matchstick in the World
Skinny marionette I need you To lose your temper
Penitent
The nocturnal tornado untouched Weaving dark thread absence Through darker thread unsewn Somehow replaces your bed kindling And blanket with the debris unbreached Of your mortal cruelty mercy While you remain asleep frantic Until the afterstorm dawn dusk When you wake troubled collected And learn that your shame dignity Has leveled the church unchapeled And turned God into rubble citadel
Benjamin Lake
I almost drowned there. Others did drown. But nobody swims That water anymore. Reclaimed by aquatic Plants and dragonflies, The lake is stagnant And iridescent. Or so My sisters tell me. I haven’t stood On that shoreline For decades. Sometimes, it feels Like my reservation Heart has become The lake—unclaimed, Overgrown, forgotten By the children Of the children Of the children Who grew up With me. I escaped From my reservation 39 years ago. But, sometimes, I wonder if I will Eventually return And be that Indian Elder who sits In a folding chair At every powwow And celebrates What used to be And what has become
Kitchen Theology
Every few months, my wife Bakes the communion bread. It’s created simply by her And consecrated by the priest. Warm from the oven On Saturday eve, The bread calls to me. But I’ve never broken Into that pre-Eucharist Because I’m a fearful atheist. Instead, I pour a bowl Of cereal and almond milk And feast on the secular Guilt of holy beauty.
Paternity
He misses his mother and father like a wren misses its chime. He misses his mother and father like a thief misses his crime. He misses his mother and father like an ivy misses its climb. He misses his mother and father like war misses peacetime. He misses his mother and father like peacetime misses war. He misses his mother and father like a lion misses its roar. He misses his mother and father like an arsonist misses a store. He misses his mother and father like a wreck misses its seafloor. He misses his mother and father like a seafloor misses its wreck. He misses his mother and father like a starving man misses bread. He misses his mother and father like a dying man misses his bed. He misses his mother and father like the dead miss the dead.
Sherman Alexie is the author, most recently, of You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me: A Memoir from Back Bay Books, as well as War Dances, poems and stories, from Grove Press, and Face, a book of poems from Hanging Loose Press. He lives with his family in Seattle.
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