“Life is a constant struggle between being an individual and being a member of the community.”
Sherman Alexie
Ode to Gray
by Sherman Alexie (1966 –
Has anybody written an ode to gray?
Well, if not, let me be the first. Let me praise
The charcoal pit, tweed suit, and cloudy x-ray
That reveals, to your amateur dismay,
Nothing you understand. Who has been amazed
Enough to write a breathy love song to gray and gray’s
Nearly imperceptible interplay
With other grays? O, how beautiful the haze
Of charcoal pits, tweed suits, and cloudy x-rays
Of airport luggage. I love the dog day,
The long delay, and existential malaise.
Has anybody written an ode to gray?
If not, then let me proceed without delay.
O, let me construct an army made of clay.
Marching, marching, they will be my ode to gray,
To charcoal pit, tweed suit, and cloudy x-ray.
Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World
by Sherman Alexie
The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
. . – Richard Wilbur
The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.
I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?
Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because
He’s astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. “Hey, Ma,
I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps,
And then I remember that my father
Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,”
I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—
How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says.
“I made him a cup of instant coffee
This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—
And I didn’t realize my mistake
Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs
At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days
And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.
Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.
Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.
Fourteen Lines 