Drought II

Drought II


Today, I walked with you
through the streets of this city
where I spent so many years
of my life, poor, hungry, always
amazed.

Believe me, I was born from thirst
into thirst until I learned to love
my thirst.

So many Indians born with the alcohol spirit
and I'm no different. My heart still
staggers when I feel the next drink
touch my lips.

There is a reservation for every prisoner
willing to accept their four walls
and window.

I remember the green walls and impossible
window of the tribal jail, that reservation
within a reservation, where my father
waited hours for a tin cup of ice water
and drank it slowly, with pain and pleasure,
like it was his first and last drink
of the vodka which stole his dreams
without scent.

I have tried to give you a simple music
but you insisted on following me down
deeper into the wells until you touched
what was left of my dreams,
of my insane thirst growing
without measure.

Sometimes, my friend, I am suddenly empty
without hope of rain.

Once, I wrote of dreaming of a country
where three inches of rain fell in an
entire year.

Then, I believed it was a way
of measuring loss. Now, I believe
it was a way of measuring how much
we need to gain.


Sherman Alexie...........from Old Shirts & New Skins