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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?
So moving, so powerful. It very much reminds me of a Jewish proverb:
When a father helps a son, both laugh.
When a son helps a father, both cry.
The best poetry is not written on command. It is a piece of your heart ripped and torn from its roots. It hurts to write it and it hurts to receive it. Thank you for sharing your love and your pain.