Airplane

Airplane

Up here, where no Indian was ever meant to be
I carry the small and useful things for safety:

generic novel, movie magazine, book of poems
by the latest great poet, bottle of water, and faith

or guilt, depending on the amount of turbulance.
Like everyone else, I believe in God most

when I'm closest to death. How did I become this
Catholic, and catholic, wanting to get to Heaven

as painfully and quickly as everyone else?
Maybe I can look out the window and see God

sitting on the wing. Maybe God is in First Class
enjoying a complimentary carafe of red wine.

"If God is on the plane," I told the flight attendant,
"then I am safe.""However," she said,"I don't think

God is on the passenger list.""I just want
to know who has the best chance of saving my life,"

I asked the flight attendant."The pilot," she said
but it sounded exactly like she said I could survive

any wreck if I said the last word of my latest prayer
at the exact moment of impact. How did I become this

Indian flying from one anonymous city to another?
They're all anonymous to me. I can't tell

the difference between New York City and Eugene, Oregon.
I woke up one morning in Tulsa and cried

for all the losses, the bleached bones of buffalo
buried out there on the Great Plains, then realized

I was still in San Francisco, waiting for the earthquake
and wanting it to reveal the bones of all the prisoners

drowned and concealed during that long swim
between Alcatraz and the shore. We are all prisoners.

How did I become this poor Indian with his hands folded
into fists, into a tightly wound prayer, as air became ground

and this airplane, my airplane, landed safely
in the light rain? I walked down the stairs,

disembarked, and asked the ground crew if they knew
why this Indian was in the exact place

where no Indian was ever meant to be.
"Engineers," they said, but it sounded exactly

like they said there is a thin, unwavering line
between God and the next available flight.

How did I become this crazy
Catholic who steals the navigational flags

and races down the runway, waving at them all, all
those planes trafficking in the dusky sky? I count

one, two, up to seven planes. I count and count.
I wave those flags (I want to light fires) and I wave

those flags (I want to light fires). I want
to bring all those planes in, bring them all in

even though each plane might contain a madman
because each plane might instead contain the woman

who wants to light a fire. I stand on the runway waving
them all in, with my left arm like this and my right arm

frantic, wanting to know how I became like this,
just like this, wanting to bring everybody back home.


Sherman Alexie...............from The Summer of Black Widows