Then through an opening in the sky we were shown al! the countries of the earth, and the camping grounds of our fathers since the beginning. All was there—the tipis, the ghosts of our fathers, andgreat herds of buffalo, and a country that smiled because it was rich and the white man was not there.
—MATO ANAHTAKA
The Redskins are winning
and I’m on the couch waiting for
the second half of their grunt-tussle
against the Chiefs to begin.
By ancient Indian habit,
I dash to the fridge for more suds.
For five years running now,
it’s been this sad, nonalcohol beer
for me and my liver.
As usual, I read the health warning
before I drink the ersatz brew.
On the bottle’s label, it says:
My brother, you are pouring
this illusion down your throat
because you are an alcoholic child
of alcoholic parents and they
were the alcoholic children
of your alcoholic grandparents.
My brother, oh, my brother
before your grandparents,
your great-grandparents
lived without firewater,
without the ghost of electricity,
without the white man’s God
in bow and arrow old-time days.
Days of obsidian. Days of grace.
Days of buckskin. Days of grace.
Days of the war lance and the buffalo.
Days before your people learned
how to hotwire
the Great Spirit
with chemical prayers.