Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan- Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation

Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan-
Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation


Angels don't come to the reservation.
Bats, maybe. Or owls, boxy mottled things;
coyotes too. They all mean the same thing—
death. But angels? No way. And death
eats angels, I guess, because I haven't seen an angel
fly through this valley ever.
Gabriel? Never heard of him. Know a guy named Gabe though.
He came through here one pow-wow and stayed, typical
Indian. Sure he had wings,
jail bird that he was. He flies around in stolen cars.
Wherever he stops, kids grow like gourds from women's bellies.
Like I said, no Indian I've ever heard of has ever been
or seen an angel.
Maybe in a Christmas pageant or something.
Nazarene Church holds one every December,
organized by Pastor John's wife. It's no wonder
Pastor John's son is the angel.
Everyone knows angels are white.
Quit bothering with angels, I say,
they’re no good for Indians.
Remember what happened last time
some white god came floating across the ocean.
Truth is, there may be angels, but if there are angels
up there, living on clouds or sitting in castles
across the sea wearing velvet robes and golden wings,
drinking whiskey from silver cups,
we're better off if they stay rich and fat and ugly and
exactly where they are—in their own distant heavens and worlds.
You better hope you never see angels on the rez.
If you do, they'll be marching you off to
Zion or Oklahoma, or some other hell they've mapped out for us.


Natalie Diaz