The Indian in Me

It is the same old story of the American Indians
I have been told a dozen times,
of the common interbreeding and the eating of apples,
how cold is the mother of invention
and warmth the mother of soul,
how the tenor saxophone is the true voice of jazz.

I stand by the open window and marvel
at the industry of birds,
the futility of tying down the names.
How, exposed to the sun,
my own skin turns a rich brown in summer
and never really fades
except with the total dying of the light.

It’s a cultural thing, I think,
how we permanently stain our bodies with India ink
and learn the patterns of the electric guitar.
It’s all been done before –
on the open plains,
in the beds of the settlers, shaking with fever,
and Custer going down in defeat again and again.

I’ve never really been sure of who I am,
standing at the mirror and listening for the horses’ hooves,
washing my hands in warm water and reciting
the surnames of those born before me.
Cousins, I ask,
can we meet on the banks of the river of blood
and sing an old story, a slow song of O’s?
Can we agree we are lonely,
Can we talk of the bones?

copyright 2005 Andy Roberts
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