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.

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