Summer 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1992 |

Citizen Kane

How we are hungry for the word to rise from our dark belly past the throat and teeth, one word to change or not change           the world. It doesn't matter which as long as our failures are spectacular: Big Mom lay on her cancer bed and cried out Frybread; Lester slapped his drunk arms and legs and whispered Snakes; Junior sold his blood for the 100th time and asked Forgiveness. Believe me, nothing is forgotten for history. Rosebud. Believe me, nothing is innocent when the camera rolls, our sins are black and white. Rosebud. Listen: when the sun falls audibly on the reservation each of us chooses the word that determines our dreams: whiskey   salmon   absence.

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece

Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More


Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.


With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.