Snapping the Fringe

Snapping the Fringe


She was there before the camas root grew jealous of the
power of her hair, after I tasted her in the fry bread.

That full-blood beauty never wore braids.

She was the fancydancer who didn't speak English on any
reservation; she wore her shawl like a bright red promise,
snapping the fringe.

She keeps you awake, leaves you sitting all night long in
the video game hall with the powwow refuse, gives you nothing
to do but eat Indian tacos with too much commodity cheese.

At three in the morning there are no locked doors on the
powwow grounds. I creep among the tipis, the breathing of
so many Indians like a long and slow song.

In the distance insomniac children break the glass against
their braids, their easy laughter leaping into the air,
shifting from pine tree to pine tree.

A Coeur d'Alene Indian whistles from the bottom of a
mud puddle.
A Spokane Indian cracks his knuckles inside a rainwater-
filled tin can.

Then, she is there fancydancing in the dust of the rodeo
grounds, in a circle of headlights, all the reservation
cars beating their horns like "drums"?

Now, during the Last Goodbye Dance, the drummers look
deep into the circle of dancers dancing around them.
They recognize her dark eyes.

The old Indian men in flannel, in blue parkas, sitting
in the front row, hold their breath as she dances by,
snapping the fringe an inch from their faces.

Sometimes she draws blood.

That full-blood beauty doesn't need to wear buckskin.
The deer sleep uneasily among the trees, dreaming of the
power of her touch, of the way she can cover you,
good and warm.


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