Song Son Blue

Song Son Blue


This is a poem about my goddamn short hair,
and yes, I know you wonder why you should
care. Ever since I cut mine, people like
to stare, and by people, I mean the
handful out there who give a shit:
those few fans who somehow dare
to ask me about my shorn hair and despair,
that I look "so corporate."
Are they aware

Of their casual racism? I would swear
at these rude assholes, but it wouln't be
fair, because my life is public, so I declare
that, after my dear father turned into air,
I cut my hair because of sacred despair.
I'm grieving, you fuckers, so now when
you stare, you will see the vengeful
son returning the glare.

---------------------------------------------

My sons had long hair until the age of five.
They can grow it back whenever they choose to.

Without loyal fans, my books would not survive,
but could some readers be a little less rude?

"But, Sherman, with short hair you look kinda'
white, and nothing like the rez boy some
of us knew."

Do I contradict myself? Yes! And if I like,
I'll contradict God, Jesus, Mary, and you.

This is a bullshit way to say, "My dad died."
He wasn't "dear" either, but he wasn't cruel.

In my back garden, the cannibal plants thrive
by eating the other blooms, stems, leaves,
and roots.

I want to be the Hamlet who doesn't whine,
but stands and tells himself,
"To do or not to do."


Sherman Alexie

from his book FACE.