The porch sags beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.

At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.

I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.

But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.

He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.

This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.

Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh

No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.

Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and Ghost Buffalo
has been leading me
down it all my life.

The tone of your sorrow
I could not shout above.
It was buried…
too deep.
Like tears the soul forgets
to weep.

There was sadness in your eyes,
but only in the shadow you cast
when the light
tried
to love you.

You were the only one
the only one
I ever loved.
But I couldn’t break
the hardness of your heart.

I couldn’t shake
the silence
that stood where tenderness
should start.

Yes
you shared your love with me.
But even love
couldn’t undo the ache.

Some wounds
they’re just
too proud
to break.

let
the
conerstone
be
one
grain of sand
for
building
your
sandcastle
in
the sun

I write and write and write
in no way am I laconic
the words flow and flow and flow
pages and pages and pages filled
watching notebooks pile up
my thoughts and emotions
filling each page
my very essence poured into my poetry
laconic is never and will never
be a part of me

During Covid by Sherman Alexie


In large numbers, the wild
rabbits arrived in our

neighborhood and have
multiplied. I see one or two

every time that I exit
our home. Once, on a walk,

my wife and I found
a baby rabbit, incompetently

hidden or abandoned
or perhaps its mother

had been taken by a serial-
killer cat—every cat

is a serial killer. There
was nothing we could do

for that baby. Animal
rescue wouldn't come

for one baby barely bigger
than a thumb and we

didn't have the time
or expertise necessary

to care for it. And, frankly,
we didn't have enough

compassion—some might
call it codependence.

There are dozens
of wild rabbits

in the neighborhood,
maybe hundreds. One

death wasn't a threat
to any population.

The next day, I walked
by the place where

we'd seen that baby.
It was gone, taken away

by something. I sighed.
I said a little prayer

for that poor thing
and then went about

the rest of my day.
But, four years later,

I still think about that
baby. It remains a part

of my life as a reminder
of the many times when

I've made cold decisions
in this cold world—

of the many times when
each of us choose

cruelty over kindness
and curse instead of bless.

Sherman Alexie