I’m on the road for a few days. In the meantime, dig a few poems from Sherman Alexie, whose home state I am visiting:<\/p>\n
Basketball is like this for young Indian boys, all arms and legs
\nand serious stomach muscles. Every body is brown!
\nThese are the twentieth-century warriors who will never kill,
\nalthough a few sat quietly in the deserts of Kuwait,
\nwaiting for orders to do something, to do something.<\/p>\n
God, there is nothing as beautiful as a jumpshot
\non a reservation summer basketball court
\nwhere the ball is moist with sweat,
\nand makes a sound when it swishes through the net
\nthat causes Walt Whitman to weep because it is so perfect.<\/p>\n
There are veterans of foreign wars here
\nalthough their bodies are still dominated
\nby collarbones and knees, although their bodies still respond
\nin the ways that bodies are supposed to respond when we are young.
\nEvery body is brown! Look there, that boy can run
\nup and down this court forever. He can leap for a rebound
\nwith his back arched like a salmon, all meat and bone
\nsynchronized, magnetic, as if the court were a river,
\nas if the rim were a dam, as if the air were a ladder
\nleading the Indian boy toward home.<\/p>\n
Some of the Indian boys still wear their military hair cuts
\nwhile a few have let their hair grow back.
\nIt will never be the same as it was before!
\nOne Indian boy has never cut his hair, not once, and he braids it
\ninto wild patterns that do not measure anything.
\nHe is just a boy with too much time on his hands.
\nLook at him. He wants to play this game in bare feet.<\/p>\n
God, the sun is so bright! There is no place like this.
\nWalt Whitman stretches his calf muscles
\non the sidelines. He has the next game.
\nHis huge beard is ridiculous on the reservation.
\nSome body throws a crazy pass and Walt Whitman catches it
\nwith quick hands. He brings the ball close to his nose
\nand breathes in all of its smells: leather, brown skin, sweat,
\nblack hair, burning oil, twisted ankle, long drink of warm water,
\ngunpowder, pine tree. Walt Whitman squeezes the ball tightly.
\nHe wants to run. He hardly has the patience to wait for his turn.
\n“What’s the score?” he asks. He asks, “What’s the score?”<\/p>\n
Basketball is like this for Walt Whitman. He watches these Indian boys
\nas if they were the last bodies on earth. Every body is brown!
\nWalt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.
\nWalt Whitman dreams of the Indian boy who will defend him,
\ntrapping him in the corner, all flailing arms and legs
\nand legendary stomach muscles. Walt Whitman shakes
\nbecause he believes in God. Walt Whitman dreams
\nof the first jumpshot he will take, the ball arcing clumsily
\nfrom his fingers, striking the rim so hard that it sparks.
\nWalt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.
\nWalt Whitman closes his eyes. He is a small man and his beard
\nis ludicrous on the reservation, absolutely insane.
\nHis beard makes the Indian boys righteously laugh. His beard
\nfrightens the smallest Indian boys. His beard tickles the skin
\nof the Indian boys who dribble past him. His beard, his beard!<\/p>\n
God, there is beauty in every body. Walt Whitman stands
\nat center court while the Indian boys run from basket to basket.
\nWalt Whitman cannot tell the difference between
\noffense and defense. He does not care if he touches the ball.
\nHalf of the Indian boys wear t-shirts damp with sweat
\nand the other half are bareback, skin slick and shiny.
\nThere is no place like this. Walt Whitman smiles.
\nWalt Whitman shakes. This game belongs to him.<\/p><\/div>\n