The Psalm We Want is Not the Psalm We Need

four poems

Photo by Yaoqi on Unsplash

Accidents & Sacraments

I didn't marry my mother
but I expect the world
to rage at me.

I didn't marry fire
but I suspect it'll burn
down my library.

I didn't marry my father
but I expect the world
to abandon me.

I didn't marry the river
but I suspect it'll go dry
overnight.

I didn't marry my mother
but I expect the world
to tell me hundreds of lies.

I didn't marry the wind
but I suspect that tornado
will explode my home.

I didn't marry my father
but I expect the world
to go mute and still.

I didn't marry the earth
but I suspect it'll bury me
beneath twelve feet of dirt.

I didn't marry my parents.
No, it's their sorrow
that has become my spouse

and I remain the child
who daily renews my wild
and domestic vows.

---

Prescription 

I wake and take the pills
that I keep on the nightstand 
beside my bed. I'm crazy,

you know, and these little
circles of medicine hold
most of the monsters

at bay. I don't like the side
effects—the night sweats,
weight gain, and fatigue—

but the direct effects of being
an unmedicated bipolar
nomad are far worse. In fact,

this morning, I'll shake 
my pill bottles like they're gourd
rattles and sing a tribal tune:

I don't care if the medicine
is ancient or new—ancient

or new, ancient or new—
I'm just relieved that it works—

that it works—ancient or new—
the meds work, they mostly work

way, ya, hi, yo

---

Some Things Can't Be Resurrected 

At Easter Mass, I notice 
that the sole is coming loose
from my shoe. These are not
the kind of shoes that can be

resoled but they're still
good shoes. I've owned them
for a decade. I've worn these
at weddings, funerals, poetry

readings, formal dinners,
and fundraisers. And, most
important, on date nights
with Diane. These shoes—

these carriages—have carried
me through magic and loss.
And I'll mourn later at home
when I untie their last knots.

---

Teacher, Teacher

For some reason, I suddenly remember 
a white woman who taught on the rez
in the 1970s. Her name was Theresa.
I remember that she fled our school

because of the too-many deaths
and ended up working at a pizza place
in Spokane where she'd sneak us
free sodas and slices of pepperoni pie

whenever we sat at one of her tables.
My siblings and I don't know
where she is now but my little
sister reminds me that Theresa,

blonde and dark-eyed, used to walk me
home after school so the tribal bullies
couldn't beat me up yet again.
How did I forget that kindness?

How did I forget that lovely bond?
Dear Theresa, wherever you are,
please know that one little Indian
boy is singing you this honor song.