There are words I can’t say.
Because he was survived by two sons.
Because they were called half-breed.
Because that second son took to drink.
I’ve always been afraid of the sea.
Because it doesn’t mean salmon-fisher.
Because I need to know I can say these words.
Because it means “mischievous, energetic.”
Mischievous men (and women) fish for salmon energetically.
Because he was an orphan.
Because in summer, my skin turns redder than my father’s.
Because they asked my mother, Is she adopted?
Because I too am of the water.
Because I hear these words.
I will split my bones and fit my skin to the sea.
I will shape my mouth to angle these words with the wind.
DISTANCE OF ARTICULATION
When letters are lost
I think of you, Michael, alone
on a train and dressed
as an ordinary parcel
an acceptable body 15 years old, crossing the whole of America.
(My father too has always been drawn to trains.)
Did you make it to Carlisle
with all your words?
with your real voice?
with all your teeth?
Four thousand, six hundred
twenty-one miles today
if by land. (not counting each wave between
Woods and the Fox Islands)
Three thousand thirty-four
if a Raven flies.
I’d like to believe you flew—
raptors, too, fish salmon. How do you think they got there? the fox,
I’d like to believe you flew
and when your young boy wings tired over Pennsylvania
and there was no more salmon
they caught you and fed you and asked you
for your name
and brought you home
where there were others
and brought you home
to listen.
In appearance, Chabitnoy’s claims of being a full blooded
Indian are fully substantiated. He is red and well built and
possesses a strikingly characteristic face,
like a fox.
Grandfather, great-grandfather,
with ears like that—
Did they f[h]ear you?
Boy, bear, bird? Shark? Fox? I can see something wild – Michael
– a body
poised to run. The only natural thing – is defiant
forward or back? – under scrutiny. What’s behind your back? What
was in you(r) hands?feathers, fur or teeth? – how soft the deer
mouth, low the ground wherein a grave meets the second born
how did we come hereMichaelwhere (do) we go?
Did your mouth grow soft with age Michael could you still chew
the kiimak – the little bones Can you hear them breaking down – You can’t
spit a fish in the water and expect it still
to swim—
I am afraid to put my face under
water afraid of filling these lungs
until the strain on my line
pulls me under
mouth open
What’s behind you(r back)?
OBSERVE THE INDIAN AS SUBJECT.
Another described the legacy as a blank space. A space that unlike a slate can not be written. A moth-eaten hole.
Native scholarsi call it a soul wound, but my book isn’t clear if these are Native American men (and women) who have become scholars, or white men with pipes and elbow patches who study Natives from armchairs. I used to adore them, the stories they’d tell. Did you ever feel such wind again, or did it move right through you? Was your coat already full of holes before you took your first step east?
i a wound is a wound is a mouth is a wound
I was trying to remember how to make salmon cakes for my parents.
I was trying to find other ways to make salmon, because I didn’t have the
right ingredients. I didn’t have access to the foods listed
in my Unangax cookbook. I didn’t know how to use the fish
in the traditional way—I didn’t think you could
throw the salmon back in the water, the bones,
I didn’t think they would swim again.
I’m thinking now it was a sign: the rest of the week I had bad dreams.
I threw away the salmon
spine perfect line
wide white eyes
scattered
in my meal
returned
Threw out meat
threw out egg
each pea-sized disturbance
In all the cans of fish
never so much never
so much—
I