Indian Summer

Painting by Nadia Reed

Indian Summer


It was the summer of grasshoppers
and "Sleep, sleep"
all my father could say
was "Sleep, sleep."

The ponies couldn't run down by the church
their tongues licked and licked
the air.

My brother told me "They're catching salt"
but I didn't believe him, wouldn't believe
ever since he said the sun could change
his mind

and I woke up early for a week, still in the
dark and watched the sun rise from the west
constantly.

It was the summer of battered grass
and empty taps. NO WATER. NO WATER
except in the uranium river
where Billy Nomad broke his neck diving
into the shallows.

The old school caught fire
and no one noticed
until it jumped from brick to pine
from pine to pine, from pine to skin.

My hair bled ash.

It was the summer of the continual powwow
and Ernie Game never wore a shirt or socks
but still managed enough gas money
to get back home.

Some Skin was always bouncing a basketball
over pavement, against ceiling and walls.
Once, I followed the sound, triangulated
position but could never find its source.

There have been smaller mysteries.

It was the summer of unbraided hair
and "Hush now! You ask too many questions"
when I wondered why Indians always die
by threes.

One, like a divining rod bent down to the ground.
Two, like a quilt imperfectly patched.
Three, like the sky folding over its horizon.


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