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[iamkatia.livejournal.com]

Agnes the Waitress


When the Indian men come to me
I try to smile.

I lift my tunic
and part my legs

with as much honor
as I can manage.

I try to love the Indian men
who are forced to enter me.

It would be easy to hate them.
Some women do.

Some women refuse
to acknowledge the man's body.

Some women close their eyes
and imagine a new childhood.

Some women weep constantly.
They don't last long.

But I hold the men close
and kiss their necks.

That always surprises them.
They stare at me

and I wonder if
I am beautiful.

I have forgotten
what that means.

I cannot tell the difference
between a beautiful man

and an ugly man
because it makes no difference.

We do not have the luxury
of such a decision.

We are Indian
and that is all that matters

though it is rumored
that white guards sneak

into bed with Indian women.
I have heard the rustling

of blankets late at night
when Indian women crawled

into bed with Indian women.
An Indian woman once kissed me

and I felt her hands on my breasts.
I reached for her, too

but the guard rushed in
and took her away.

I never saw her again.
I dream about her

though I cannot tell you
if she was beautiful.

I want to believe
my babies are beautiful

though I have learned to let them go.
I give birth.

I heal.
I am pregnant again.

Pregnancy is the good time.
Pregnant women share a cell.

We eat well.
We are not touched.

We are allowed to speak
to the body inside our own

and pretend it is our mother,
father, sister, and brother.


~ Sherman Alexie

Comments

[ex-myst341.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is heart-breaking! (great poem, though)