Escape Room

poem

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If I find the right song
on the jukebox—

some Waylon,
some Haggard—

then my father's
ghost will stagger

to the dance
floor and be so

distracted
that I might

set myself free
from the reservation

Indian boy he wanted
me to be—no, no, no,

this is what happens
so often when I write

a poem. I began this
poem with a vague idea

of what it might become—
I thought that "Escape

Room" was a good
title and might lead me

to a poem about
something new—but

then my father's ghost
barged into one

of my poems yet again.
"Junior," he says.

"You can't stop
writing poems

about me." Yeah,
I'm Sherman Alexie,

Junior. My father
named me after

himself. On the rez,
there's a gravestone

with his carved name
that's also my carved

name. Damn, damn.
Dear Fathers, stop

burdening your sons
by naming them

after you. Damn, damn.
When they lowered

my father's casket
into his grave, my name

was buried with him.
But, now, every time

I start to write a poem,
my father digs himself

from his final dirt
(It's not final!) and rises

yet again into my life.
Hello, Father, welcome

to yet another poem.
Here, let me give you

a tour of my home.
Here's the living

room, kitchen,
and all the bedrooms.

Here's my wife
And sons. Let me

make you a cup
of instant coffee, like

you like it, with too
much sugar. Dear

Father, I hope this
poem has been 

a good host. Dear,
Dear, Dear Father,

I just realized
that I'm your ghost.