The Powwow at the End of the World

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam
and topples it. I am told by many of you that I must forgive
and so I shall after the floodwaters burst each successive dam
downriver from the Grand Coulee. I am told by many of you
that I must forgive and so I shall after the floodwaters find
their way to the mouth of the Columbia River as it enters the Pacific
and causes all of it to rise. I am told by many of you that I must forgive
and so I shall after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed by that salmon
waiting in the Pacific. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia
and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors
of Hanford. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River
as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives
in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone.
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall after
that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws
a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire
which will lead all of the lost Indians home. I am told
by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon
who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: one story will teach us
how to pray; another story will make us laugh for hours;
the third story will give us reason to dance. I am told by many
of you that I must forgive and so I shall when I am dancing
with my tribe during the powwow at the end of the world.


-- Sherman Alexie (1966- ), Spokane/Coeur d/Alene poet, novelist, playwright, and filmmaker.

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

The morning air is all awash with angels—Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World”



The eyes open to a blue telephone 
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel. 

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber, 
Proctologist, urologist, or priest? 

Who is blessed among us and most deserves 
The first call? I choose my father because 

He’s astounded by bathroom telephones. 
I dial home. My mother answers. 

“Hey, Ma,” I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” 
She gasps, And then I remember that my father 

Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,” 
I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry— 

How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says. 
“I made him a cup of instant coffee 

This morning and left it on the table— 
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years— 

And I didn’t realize my mistake 
Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs 

At the angels who wait for us to pause 
During the most ordinary of days 

And sing our praise to forgetfulness 
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings. 

Those angels burden and unbalance us. 
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback. 

Those angels, forever falling, snare us 
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

--Sherman Alexie (1966- ), member off the Spokane/Coeur d/Alene Nation, poet, playwright, short story writer, novelist, filmmaker, from Face, 2006