Iowa, Arizona

Iowa, Arizona

I guess I have another home,

Someplace I've never been.

I'm listed on a tribal roll

And get postcards from the rez.

Otros de los

Gentrified gente

En mí barrio suburbano,

Sin sentido...

Lo siento, Lost sense.

Not meaningless,

Though ticky-tacky

Boxes all blend,

I guess I have a people.

I'm sorry this is what they've become.

Frantic fight-or-flight

Frequent verge-of-failure type.

While I am one

My ancestors prayed for,

One they sang about,

Danced for my prosperity.

I don't feel I've earned that,

I lack sincerity in my intentions,

See school as such.

It's not like I've gone to do something big,

I went to learn to be "American Indian,"

Even though I already was.

I am aware that tacky, clip-art tribal tattoos

Don't make up for real, lived experience.

My being 20 minutes away from San Xavier is coincidence.

I'm more mexican and white than Ioway Nation,

So my multigenerational childhood home

Is almost entirely irrelevant.

There's an eagle or a hawk, lives in a palm tree where I walk.

When I pass under him I feel real Indian.

Slightly displaced, but at least we see each other. Still I wonder

How he got there, where he came from.

Perhaps we've both got other homes,

Somewhere we've never been.