Sundays, Too

Sundays, Too


That was the summer all of us Indians drank the same brand
of beer. At first, it was coincidence, economics. Then, it
grew into a living thing, evolved, and defined itself,
became a ceremony, a tribal current, a shared synapse.

Often, it was beautiful: twenty or thirty Indians climbing
out of a single reservation car like alcoholic circus
clowns, all of us drinking the same brand of beer,
half-cases, half-full and tucked under our arms.
Our children loved us.

Standing in circles around fires, the Indians drank,
laughed easily, laughed until the laughter was all.
It was incestuous, moments so immediate, so familial,
the air trembled because the Indians would not.

After hours of this drinking, only a few beers remained,
the Indians shared, drank from the same can, bottle.
Thick lips tasted and touched where other lips tasted
and touched. It was communion, baptism, confession.

Later, in the dark, breathing replaced light as the source
of our vision. Inside Bear, I saw the shape of her breath,
distinct from the tiny storm Coyote created as he
masterbated on the hood of the reservation car, separate
from the hurried noise of Wolf pushing Raven against
a pine tree, all of it coming together, sounding more and
more like water meeting other water, like a small stone
rolling down the strike a larger stone, rolling down
to strike a boulder, bringing down a mountain.

There is nothing we cannot survive.


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