Eugene Boyd Don't Drink Here Anymore by Sherman Alexie

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Eugene Boyd Don't Drink Here Anymore
by Sherman Alexie

The Stranger walks into the bar, orders a beer, and asks me where the hell Eugene Boyd is, and I tell him, he got shot last year in the parking lot of the Gold Coin, man, he's dead. The Stranger looks me in the eyes, looks the whole bar straight in the eyes, and drinks his beer in one drink. Who the hell did it, the Stranger asks me, and I tell him that everyone knows but the police ain't going to do anything about it because when one Indian kills another Indian, that's considered natural selection. He holds that empty glass tight and looks in the mirror behind the bar where all our faces are reflected. All us stoic Indians rehearsing for parts as extras in some eternal black and white western. Shit, used to be only whites expected Skins to have monosyllabic faces, but now, we even expect it of each other. But the Stranger looks in the mirror and he starts crying. Crying for the dead, not looking forward to the gifts he'll get from the deceased, not looking forward to the wake, he's crying for the dead. I used to figure strength was all a matter of being waterproof, like our houses could never be. So the Stranger throws his glass at the mirror, shattering us all into pieces, and in the silence after that the Professor, at the end of the bar, tips his beer and says, "that was some serious fucking dualism."

night thoughts: baby and demon by gwen harwood

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i wanted to write an introduction to this poem that went something along the lines of, "i never dreamed poetry could be like this until-"

everything i wrote seemed trite and inadequate. please read.

( night thoughts: baby & demon by gwen harwood )