Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

gush of it frightens her. She thinks her own words
can lock her up. I think of both these things while I
wait for morning to arrive out on my small porch,
writing words that might have the power to take
away my children permanently.
The sun rises, breaches heavy clouds. We call this
sapphire light “dawn,” but what do we know? Where
is the foggy edge between then and now? Maybe it is
the difference between inner and outer worlds. I’m
remembering the day my anger transformed like
molten silver into a blinding nova that I learned to
call desire.
She surprises me with Shoshone Falls.
Directs me, “Turn left here.” Says, “Let’s take
this exit.” The road is suddenly a crevasse:
opens jagged in this flat earth, slants fast
down to the river. A gift. She saved this
moment to please me. The Indian at the gate
takes our user fee and grins as if she’d called
ahead to conspire. “I’m bringing a woman to
the Falls this afternoon,” she might have
confided. “Make sure they roar real good.”
The waters are wide as my hopes. Out on the
boat dock, our bare feet in cold current, she
kisses me: lips pursed, trembling,
inexperienced for all her boasts. It’s what I