Elegies

Elegies


This is a poem for people who died in stupid ways.
This is a poem for Napoleon's great grandson who
snapped his neck when his ridiculously long scarf caught
in the rear wheels of the convertible he was driving.
This is a poem for General George Armstrong Custer.
This is a poem for all the Japanese gourmets who eat one of those
poisonous blowfish, which are considered a great delicacy, but
are lethal in even the smallest portions unless prepared
expertly by a chef who has trained for years. A blowfish steak
will make your lips numb, blur your vision, and ring your ears,
when it is prepared correctly. A poorly prepared blowfish
will stop your heart just like that. The dead, with their
stuffed, stopped hearts, are buried with expressions of
deep satisfaction.
This is a poem for all those who died with expressions of
deep satisfaction.
This is a poem for the skydivers who pulled the cord and heard the
deafening silence of a chute that would not open, then felt
the roar of the secondary chute as it fluttered uselessly
above them.
This is a poem for all the teenagers who wrote songs about teens
who failed to beat the train at the crossing and failed.
This is a poem for all the folksingers who wrote songs about teens
who failed to beat the train at the crossing.
This is a poem for the Brink's armored-car guard who was crushed
to death by $50,000 worth fo quarters. He was guarding a load
of twenty-five-pound coin boxes in the back of the truck
when the driver braked suddenly to avoid a car that had swerved
in front of him. When the driver pulled over to check on his
partner, he found him completely covered by coins.
This is a poem for all the hunger strikers of the world. When they
are close to death, I forget whey they were striking. I just
want to give them a glass of water and a slice of bread. After
they are gone, I feel motion sickness.
This is a poem for the men and women who ate themselves to death
with meals of such enormity (whole chickens, ten pounds of eggs,
gallons of milk, 27 apple pies) that their hearts
simply collapsed.
This is a poem for the cooks who prepared those enormous meals
and feel no guilt.
This is a poem for the cooks who prepared those enormous meals
and feel guilty.
This is a poem for smokers.
This is a poem for the poet who camped on Mount St.Helens's just
days before the mountain erupted, despite repeated warnings
from experts and psychics alike.
This is a poem for anybody who camps on active volcanoes. I am
the kind of man who makes rules for himself. Hence, I forbid
myself to become the kind of man who camps on active volcanoes.
Please feel free to adopt this rule for yourself.
This is a poem for the people who jump off the Golden Gate Bridge
and change their minds halfway down.
This is a poem for everybody who jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge
because they all change their minds halfway down. I have
faith that nobody wants to die for any time period longer
than the few seconds it actually takes to commit suicide.
This is a poem for the music student who died after being caught in
a flash fire while trying to relieve a bad case of hemmorrhoids
with gasoline. Don't ask me about the details.
This is a poem about John Edward Blue, who was being baptized on
August 13, 1984, when he and the minister performing the
baptism slipped and fell backward into deep water. The minister
survived, but Blue drowned.
This is a poem for the minister who survived. He sits alone now, and
prays quietly for clarity and forgiveness.
This is a poem for me. No. This is a poem for the me I used to be, the
me who once drove drunk on purpose, knowing I was too drunk
to drive well, quite sure I might die in a crash. I was the one
who changed his mind halfway through the ride, stopped the car
in the middle of the road, and walked home. The car was still
running, engine idling, when the tow truck arrived, a few
hours later.
This is a poem for the me that kept driving and crashed through a
guardrail into the river, or smashed head-on into a car full
of teenagers returning from a high school basketball game, or
rolled over 22 times, down the highway, car coming to a rest
on its wheels, roof collapsed on my head.
This is a poem for my oldest brother, who is still alive and living
with our parents on the reservation, but who I worry about
when my telephone rings in Seattle. Every so often, I have to
catch my breath before I can pick up the receiver.
This is a poem for my oldest sister and her husband, who died in a
trailer fire in Montana when a curtain drifted on wind and
touched a hot plate left burning. My sister and her husband
were passed out in the back bedroom, too drunk to wake, even
when the flames and smoke danced through their bedroom.
This is a poem for my father, who has a sore on his foot that will
never heal. He salts his food with vengeance, like he was taking
revenge on everybody who had ever done him wrong.
This is a poem for my tribe, who continue to live in the shadow fo
the abandoned uranium mine on our reservation, where the
night sky glows in a way that would have invoked songs and
stories a few generations earlier, but now simply allows us
to see better as we drive down the highway toward a different
kind of moon.


Sherman Alexie...........from The Summer of Black Widows.