And I knew that I shouldn’t let the bird suffer. But I didn’t know if I could pick it up and snap its neck. And as I imagined it struggling against my fingers, I knew I wasn’t cruel enough to smother it. So what to do? How long would it take to die? Minutes or hours? A day? And what would happen to the defenseless bird if I left it alone on our deck? It would be easy prey for all of the neighborhood predators—insects, rodents, other birds, and all of the mass-murdering house cats. I couldn’t stand the thought of this poor bird being eaten alive while it was potentially paralyzed. So, yes, I was a weak-ass moralist unable to kill the bird and unsure if I had the patience to stand guard as it died. Then, as I pondered, the bird lifted a wing—
Ah, such a brave bird, reaching Toward the sky, I suppose.
Or toward its God. I don’t know
How birds die. But this bird Shook that wing, shook
That wing, and then it raised
Its other wing and shook it, too.
Oh, I praised that bird
As it shook and shook and shook
Its wings, alternately
And simultaneously.
And then that little bird stood—
I wasn’t home on the reservation when my mother died. My wife, sons, and I had visited her on Father’s Day, almost two weeks before her death, and we’d said our good-byes. During our mother’s final days and hours, my sisters and niece gently tried to get me to return. But I did not. I had thanked my mother for my life. I had told her that I loved her. Those weren’t lies. And they seemed to give me enough closure to survive. I don’t feel guilty about not being with my mother when she died. Or maybe I feel the proper amount of guilt. Or maybe I will feel more guilt as time passes. I don’t know. But I certainly feel terrible that I hurt my sisters and niece. And yet, I’d also known that many other people would come to help my sisters and niece. When my mother died, there were at least ten cousins and friends in the room. My mother was surrounded by her most beloved ones. Everybody except me—
I applauded when that proud bird Climbed to its feet and shook, Shook, shook, shook, shook,
And shook its entire body.
Was it seizing? Or, wait, shit, Were those its death throes?
No, no, I didn’t think so Because the bird walked slow Circles around the deck,
Little oval miracles that became Larger as the minutes passed.
And as it paced, the bird continued
To shake and shake and shake Its head, wings, body, and feet, But I wasn’t sure why,
And then it walked to the edge Of our deck, paused,
And then lifted into flight,
Around the corner
Of our house and then winged Its way out of my life—
A few weeks after our mother’s funeral, and a few days after my adventure with the bird, I sat with my therapist and told her about the little creature’s pacing and shaking. “I don’t know if I ever told you,” my therapist said. “But I’m a birder. I love birds. And when they hit a window like that, or get hurt in any significant way, they have this ritual. They shake off the pain. They shake off the trauma. And they walk in circles to reconnect their brain and body and soul. When your bird was walking and shaking, it was remembering and relearning how to be a bird.” Oh, wow. I couldn’t say much after that intense revelation, but my therapist continued. “We humans often lose touch with our bodies,” she said. “We forget that we can also shake away our pain and trauma.” It seemed so simple. I openly doubted that it could be true—
But, that night, I stood on our deck In the same place where that bird Had fallen, arose, walked, shook, And flew. And I performed
That ritual, too. I shook my arms, Legs, head, and body. I paced In small circles that grew larger By the minute. I reached
Toward every other constellation.
I reached toward my sisters, Niece, and brothers. I reached Toward the memory of my mother.
And as I continued to shake, I felt A sparrow-sized pain rise From my body and—wait, wait, wait.
Listen. I don’t know how or when
My grieving will end, but I’m always Relearning how to be human again.
Acknowledgments
I sing an honor song for Nancy Stauffer, my agent and friend and compatriot since 1992. What is the official gift for a twenty-fifth literary anniversary?
I also sing for Reagan Arthur, my amazing editor. This is our first book together. But it’s not the one I originally promised to her. That one is still on the way. It is contractually obligated to be on the way. But I might write and publish a different one. I don’t know. Anything could happen. So, yeah, Reagan is incredibly patient.
More songs for every person on the Little, Brown team, in the adult and young adult departments. I am the author of this book, yes, but there are dozens of people who help present it to the world. Thanks to all of them.
Some of the words in this book were published, often in radically different forms, by Hanging Loose Press, Superstition Review, Valapraiso Poetry Review, and Limberlost Press.
Praise to Wendy Hathaway, co-pilot, navigator, engineer, lifeguard, EMT, and getaway driver of FallsApart Productions.
As always, I have relied on the love, emotional support, editorial advice, and constant inspiration of Kim Barnes, Shann Ferch, Kevin Taylor, and Jess Walter.
I give thanks for Jennings, Jeide, Williams, Lee, McBride, and Quirk—the Field House Gang.
I give a twenty-drum salute to the Neurology Clinic team at Harborview Medical Center in Seattle. You saved my life. You saved my brain. You saved my stories.
Special thanks to Grudge Judy, who helped me in the desert.
This book would not exist without the stories of the powerful indigenous women in my life. In particular, I want to honor Diane Tomhave, Kim Alexie, Arlene Alexie, Shelly Boyd, and LaRae Wiley.
And, forever and ever, I thank Alex Kuo, my teacher, who read one of my poems in 1987, and asked me, “What are you going to do with the rest of your life?” I said, “I don’t know.” And then he said, “I think you should write.”