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All
poems (c)2002 Mark Turcotte, reprinted by permission from the
collection, Exploding Chippewas (TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern
University Press).
All
Photography (c)2004 Fred Ellis
BURN
Back when I used to be Indian
I am crushing the dance floor,
jump-boots thumping Johnny Rotten
Johnny Rotten. Red lights blue bang
at my eyes. The white girl watching
does not know why and it doesn’t
matter.
I spin spin. Eat I don’t care for breakfast,
so what for lunch. She moves to me,
dark gaze, tongue hot to lips. The music
is hard, lights louder. She slides low
against my hip to hiss, go go Geronimo.
I stop.
All silence he sits beside the fire
at the center of the floor, hands stirring
through the ashes, mouth moving in the shape
of my name. I turn to reach toward him,
take on step, feel my skin begin
to flame away.
MOTION
Back when I used to be Indian
I am holding the words deep
in my throat. The black and
silver Mustang slices
silently toward an ancient orange
West Texas sky. The steering wheel
shakes and hums in my hands
like a dowsing stick. The sun
is a bruise on the horizon.
In the distance pump-jacks peck
relentless at the earth.
To left and right the world
is a blur of endless fences
draped with coyote skins.
Flexing my fingers I glance
over at her soft brown
knees. This is the place.
I cough.
Maria laughs, stars spin from
her teeth as night encircles us
with sound. Wings, howling.
She throws her arms around
my neck and everything
is swallowed.
CALL
Back when I used to be Indian
I am stretching out beneath
her, the thin white curtains
waving like wings above
our bed. The drowsy bird
of me unfolds into her hands.
She grins, crawls over me, shakes
her head. The long black
feathers of her hair fall between
my teeth as I rise
into
her dark and trembling hips.
Against the wall Jesus
dangles from his cross, eyes
searching for the sky.
I hear children out in the yard.
They chase chickens in circles of laughter,
while in the shade of a ragged pecan
tree Abuela is coughing, grinding
the corn into dust, mutter,
oh Dio mio, Dios mio.
I rise again.
A table in the corner begins
to shudder. Over and over she falls
upon me. The eyes of Jesus.
The ceiling cracks open. Angels and
adobe crash into the room.
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