Following

a poem about reservation life

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

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We need to carry thick gloves
and old blankets in the trunk
so we can pick up roadkilled

porcupines and pluck their quills
to embroider sacred garments.
And we also gather roadkilled

birds because their feathers, if
undamaged, can also be used
to dance just like birds dance.

And I remember the white tourists
on the rez who smashed their car
into an elk, and how they panicked,

not knowing what to do, until
my Colville Indian friend jumped out
of her truck with a hunting knife

and mercifully killed and dressed
the elk before the meat went bad.
And I need to say that my friend

with the knife is movie star
beautiful, so it's doubly hilarious 
to think of those white tourists

baffled by the rez goddess pulling
that elk's heart from its chest.
And, yeah, the rez is comedy

and tragedy because I could draw
a map of all the places where
rez Indians—my family and friends

and enemies—died in car wrecks.
Everytime I drive onto the rez
and everytime I drive away, I use

the roads where Indian were
killed. I love some of them
and some love me but I miss

all of them. We belong
to the same tribe. They're buried
in the same graveyards

where my parents and grandparents
are buried. All of our parents
and grandparents are buried

in the same cemeteries. Row
by row, they rest together.
You want to know what it means

to be a rez Indian? It means you know
dozens of Indians who died
at high speed. It means your engine

is fueled by grief, shame, and rage.
It means every road is haunted by
ghosts who know your secret name.