About Political Poems

a poem as rebuttal

Somebody asked me why I'm not
writing political poems like
I "used to." And I answered that
I once drove from my reservation

to my father's reservation to search
for him. He'd been on a drinking
binge for almost two weeks,
and he was diabetic, and his kidneys

and liver had begun to fail him,
so he was slowly killing himself. I found
him at a drinking buddy's house.
My father was passed out on a battered

recliner. He was covered with his
own piss, shit, and vomit. "Jesus,
Dad," I said. "What have you done?"
He opened his eyes, recognized me,

and said, "Junior, I don't wanna go
home." But I picked him up anyway—
a teenage son cradling his father—
and carried him out to my car.

He smelled so bad that I gagged
and now I smelled like him, too.
I set him down on the ground
with his back against the rear

fender, then I opened the trunk,
pulled out an old blanket,
and laid it over the passenger
seat. Then I lifted him again

and sat him in that seat and wrapped
the belt around him. "Junior,"
he said again. "I don't wanna go 
home." I didn't respond. My t-shirt

reeked with my father's waste
so I took it off and threw it into
the nearby brush. I got behind
the wheel and sped us back

toward home, toward the place
where my father didn't want to go.
I'd rolled down the car windows
to dissipate the stench. Yes, I was

an Indian boy, shirtless and war-
painted with my father's shit, piss,
and vomit. In that moment,
I learned that grief can take

the form of a two-lane highway
where every oncoming car
is the lead vehicle in a funeral
procession. And I cried and cried

but I wasn't wearing a shirt
so I couldn't dry my face.
And my father said he loved me.
He only said he loved me

when he was drunk. I turned
the radio to the country station
that I called the Alcoholic
Indian Jukebox. And my father

and I sang along with a little dog
moving out because a big dog
was moving in. And, yes, I got us
home, back to our government-

built house. And my mother helped me
put my father to bed. Yes, my mother
kept loving my father, who was the most
gentle drunk who ever lived. He slept

for most of two days. And maybe
you want to know why my father fled
us a few times every year or why
he never wanted to come back

home. And I guess it was because
almost every Indian that he'd ever
loved had died young, including
his mother and father. So I think

my Dad was afraid to love us—
his Indian wife and Indian children.
He was afraid that we'd die young.
But it turns out that he was the one

who left early. He was only
sixty-two when we buried him.
So, yes, go ahead and ask me
why I don't write political poems

like I "used to." And I answer
hey, I don't need to write a poem
that tells you how you're supposed
to vote. I don't need to invent

a cause or stance. I only need to write
about the things that happened.
My father died of natural causes
and those natural causes were

being Indian. And, damn it,
that was a dark joke but you're not
laughing. And this is the end
of the poem. Are you clapping?