Who Goes Missing, Who Gets Found

a poem

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Fifty years ago, my cousin
hitchhiked off the reservation
and disappeared. Sometimes,
over the decades, I've searched

for his face among the Indian
strangers I see on the streets.
Rumors used to place him
in Seattle, Portland, Montana,

and as far away as Minneapolis.
Those rumors kept him present.
I think of him often these days
as the country finally pays

attention to all the Indians
who go missing and never
return. My cousin is gone.
He won't be back. I know

this mystery won't be solved.
But I still ask questions.
I still interrogate the world.
Did he die from violence?

Or mental illness? Or accident?
Is he buried in an unmarked
grave? Yes, of course, he's buried
in an unmarked grave. It hurts

to write that. He's an Indian
buried in an unmarked grave—
another Indian, another Indian
buried in an unmarked grave.

This is our Native American
history—a history of unmarked
graves. My cousin's name was
Samuel. He was named

for the prophet venerated
in Judiasm, Christianity,
and Islam. So, please, let this
poem venerate our Samuel.

Let us remember him.
He was hilarious and handsome.
He and his brothers slept
in the attic of our one-bedroom

house on the reservation
while ten of us other members
slept downstairs. I remember,
or think I remember, those 

Indian boys making boyish
noise as all we tried to sleep,
as they fought against sleep.
Dear Samuel, you're awake

and alive only in our memories.
But you are alive. You are alive.
And, yes, it's a contradiction
but, fifty years after you

disappeared, you're alive, alive
in the family stories we tell
about all of the Indians who 
went away, who didn't survive.

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