Children of Wrath

poem

Photo by Stephanie LeBlanc on Unsplash

---

The Indian boy boasted
that he could make
the leap from the ridge

down to the pool
at the base of the water-
fall. Surrounded by

slabs of basalt, that pool
was maybe ten square
feet. An Olympic long

jumper couldn't have
covered that distance.
Did the Indian boy know

that he'd die if he missed?
Does that make it suicide
or not? Was it an echo

of centuries past when
warriors earned their
names by being foolish

and brave at the same
time? Was that Indian
boy waging war on

himself? I only know
that we brown boys
always felt punished 

by the white God
and abandoned by
the Indian God. 

There was never
a saint who performed
miracles for us.

There was never
a bartender who quit
serving our parents.

On our rez, Jesus pulled
himself off the cross
and walked away. More

of us Indian boys died
young in the days after
the day of that terrible

leap. It goes on and on.
I didn't see that boy
sprint off the ridge

and I don't know if
anybody tried to stop
him. I didn't swim so

I was downstream
and around a bend
and only heard him

hit the rocks. I heard
the panicked screams
and curses. I heard

the cars speeding away
toward the nearest house
to call for help. All these

decades later, I don't
remember if that boy
was kind or cruel.

He was popular but,
sometimes, cruelty is
charismatic. Sometimes,

your kindness will make
you the pariah. I think
he was a powwow 

dancer. I see eagle
feathers spinning around
my memory of him. 

I wish those feathers
had been attached to his
shoulder blades. I wish

that he would've flown
off the ridge and floated
down to that pool

at the base of the water-
fall. I wish he would've
splashed into the water

then shook his wings
and drenched all 
of the Indians anywhere

near. But none of that
happened. The only real
things, then and now, 

are the old clocks and new
calendars stuck to the ribs
of every reservation

Indian boy who knew
and knows that he'll live
to be sixty years old

and grey if he somehow
makes it past the black
braids of eighteen.