The Official Story
I stopped claiming Indian Blood
when the government told me:
no proof. Grandma,full-blooded
Delaware orphan adopted
by Black farmers trying to save
her. New daughter in tow,
the family headed straight for
the tribal headquarters to make
her Black: crossing out names,
birth certificate burned.Shredding
any and all pictures of her
as an Indian, a screwdriver scratching
her from the tribal monument,
because disproof isn't proof,
and erasure means forgetting.
Genetics are all they left-
half-breed son of a different half
dusted with disco, Afro-Sheen
instead of war paint. A half-half
breed grandson, still not
finding his name on the ledger.
An Aggressive Dream of Michelle & Oranges
Her gardens were the gardens I spoke of
when I spoke to you of gardens.
—Michael Ondaatje
At night, she comes to me, a gospel torn
from buckets full of skin and hair. This night,
inside my distended head, she is calm,
peeling orange rinds. The peels warn
of madness pressed into citrus, the fight
for juice & pith. Her patience is a Psalm
in movement. I run my finger along
the creases in her palm. A stalagmite
of orange rind reminds me that I suspend
her progress. Oranges often invite
elevation: they are the fruit borne
in harvest moons, dream glances. I pretend
not to see her looking, but I intend
to take Michelle to my lips like a horn.
