I can’t write a nature poem
bc it’s fodder for the noble savage
narrative. I wd slap a tree across the face,
I say to my audience.
Let’s say I’m at a pizza parlor
Let’s say I’m having a slice at the bar this man walks in to pick up his
to-go order
Let’s say his order isn’t ready yet and he’s chatty
Let’s say I’m in Portland bc ppl don’t tawlk to me in NYC
Let’s say he’s like, meatballs are for the baby, pizza’s for the little man
Caesar salad’s for the wife and the beer he points to the beer and then
thumbs at himself, the beer’s for me.
He has one of those cracked skin summer smiles
He keeps talking like I want to hear him
Like he’s so comfortable
Like everybody owes him attention
I’m a weirdo NDN faggot
He puts his hands on the ribs of my chair asks do I want to go into the
bathroom with him
Let’s say it doesn’t turn me on at all
Let’s say I literally hate all men bc literally men are animals—
This is a kind of nature I would write a poem about.
We are the last animal to arrive in the kingdom—even science will tell
you that.
My father takes me into the hills we cut sage. He tells me to thank
the plant for its sacrifice, son. Every time I free a switch of it a burst of
prayer for every leaf.
I’m swoll on knowing this? Sharing the pride of plants
My mother waves at oak trees. A doctor delivers her diagnosis.
When she ascends the mountains to pick acorn, my mother
motherfucking waves at oak trees. Watching her stand there, her
hands behind her back, rocking, grinning
into the face of the bark—
They are talking to each other.
I am nothing like that, I say to my audience.
I say, I went to Sarah Lawrence College
I make quinoa n shit
Once on campus I see a York Peppermint Pattie wrapper on the ground,
pick it up, and throw it away. Yr such a good Indian says some dick
walking to class. So,
I no longer pick up trash.
I can’t write a nature poem bc that conversation happens in the Hall of
South American Peoples in the American Museum of Natural History
btwn two white ladies in buttery shawls as they pass a display case of
“traditional” garb from one tribe or another it doesn’t really matter to anyone
and that word Natural in Natural History hangs
also History
also Peoples
hangs as in frames
it’s horrible how their culture was destroyed
as if in some reckless storm
but thank god we were able to save some of these artifacts—history is so
important. Will you look at this metalwork? I could cry—
Look, I’m sure you really do just want to wear those dream catcher
earrings. They’re beautiful. I’m sure you don’t mean any harm, I’m sure
you don’t really think abt us at all. I’m sure you don’t understand the
concept of off-limits. But what if by not wearing a headdress in yr music
video or changing yr damn mascot and perhaps adding .05% of personal
annoyance to your life for the twenty minutes it lasts, the 103 young ppl
who tried to kill themselves on the Pine Ridge Indian reservation over
the past four months wanted to live 50% more
I don’t want to be seen, generally, I’m a natural introvert, n I def don’t
want to be seen by white ladies in buttery shawls,
but I will literally die if I don’t scream
You can’t be an NDN person in today’s world
and write a nature poem. I swore to myself I would never write a nature
poem. Let’s be clear, I hate nature—hate its guts
I say to my audience. There is something smaller I say to myself:
I don’t hate nature at all. Places have thoughts—hills have backs that love
being stroked by our eyes. The river gobbles down its tract as a metaphor
but also abt its day. The bluffs purr when we put down blankets at the
downturn of the sun and laugh at a couple on a obvi OkCupid date
and even more stellar, the jellybean moon sugars at me. She flies and
beams and I breathe.
Fuck that. I recant. I slap myself.
Let’s say I live in NYC. Let’s say I was the first person in my family to
graduate college. Let’s say UGH I like watching New Girl on Hulu.
This is the difference:
Some see objects in the Earth, where I see lungs. Sky mother falls thru
a hole, lands on a turtle.
Hole is my favorite band.