strange, strange ego

                              1

I know a woman
who swims naked in the ocean
no matter the season.

I don’t have a reason
for telling you this

(I never witnessed
her early morning
dips into the salt)

other than to let you know
that I once found the thought
of her nudity erotic

but now can only imagine
the incredible cold, how
I would want to cover her body
with my coat and tell her
how crazy she is
for having so much faith

in two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen.

                              2

While reading a mystery novel (I
don’t remember the title), I dropped

a cup of hot tea into my lap.
Third degree burns

on my thighs, penis, and scrotum.
I still have the scars and once told

a white woman they were the result
of a highly sacred Indian ceremony

                              3

I knew a man
who drowned

in three inches of water.
collected in a tire track.

I wish I could name him here
but tribal laws forbid me

to name the dead.
These laws are aboriginal

and more important
than any poem.

But I want to give him
a name

that means what I say
so I name him

Hamlet, King Lear
Othello, Noah, Adam.

                              4

Then Boo tells me, “Whenever I feel depressed or lonely
I drink a glass of water and immediately feel better.”

                              5

In the unlikely event of a water landing
you can use your seat cushion as a floatation device.

I worry about this.

I wonder if the puny cushion can possibly support
my weight. I am a large man. In the unlikely event
of a water landing, you can use your seat cushion
as a floatation device. Of course, the plane doesn’t crash.
We land safely. We always land safely. And Ha! Ha!
The flight attendant tells the disembarking passengers
to drive safely away from the airport, because driving is
so much more dangerous, statistically speaking, than flying.

I want to slap her across the mouth, statistically speaking.

In the unlikely event of a water landing, you can use
your seat cushion as a floatation device. I am suddenly afraid
of gravity, so I take my seat cushion off the plane. I steal
the damn thing and run through the airport, chased
by an ever increasing number of security people, both
men and women, so I’m pleased this airport has progressed
beyond an antiquated notion of gender roles. But wait,

I have no time to be liberal, I have to run fast
so I do run fast, with that seat cushion pressed tightly
against my chest. I cannot run fast enough
in such an awkward position, as I am a large man
I cannot easily hide. I cannot blend into the crowd.
I cannot duck behind the counter of the Burger King
and ask for your order, your order, your order.

Yes, in the event of a water landing, you can use your seat cushion
as a floatation device, and here I am, running, and praying
as I run, every step shouting LORD, LORD, LORD,
every other step whispering amen, amen, amen.

                              6

At the restaurant, a good one, I ask the waiter to leave
the pitcher of water because I drink lots of water.

"I can’t do that," he says.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because we never leave the pitcher," he says.

"Not once?" I ask.

"Never," he says, "have we ever left a whole pitcher
of water, not once in the entire history of this restaurant.
It is impossible for us to do so. It is inconceivable for us
to even consider such a thing. Who knows
what would happen if we set such a precedent?"

                              7

When I was seven, I took swim lessons
at the YMCA from three beautiful teenagers

who all seemed like women to me.
They hugged me when they saw me

waiting in line to see Jaws at the Fox Theater
in downtown Spokane. Where are they now?

Somewhere, they are being women.

Do they remember teaching me
how to swim? Do they recognize my face

when they pick up the local newspaper
or see my photograph on the back of this book?

O, strange, strange ego.

Here and now, I’ve decided I want them
to love me from afar. I want them to regret

their whole lives because they were once
sixteen-year-old swimmers who never stopped

to passionately kiss the seven-year-old me
as I floated from the deep end of the pool

back to the shallow.

                              8

My brother, the big one, says, “It ain’t truly water
unless it’s got three scoops of Kool-aid in it.”

                              9

My wife, the Indian, grew up in Southern California
with a swimming pool in the backyard. Wow!

Her father, the trickster, called relatives back home
in North Dakota. Called them in late December
when trees were exploding in the high plains cold.
Called them and said, "Hey, it's December

here in California, but the kids are still swimming
in the pool. Can you hear them splashing in the water?"

Her father held that phone high into the air, toward
the empty pool. It was empty because it was too cold
to swim in December, even in Southern California
but the North Dakota Indians didn’t know any better
so they were jealous and happy at the same time.

My wife, just a child then of five or ten or eighteen years
heard the slurred laughter of her father, the drunk.
He would shout into the phone. "Hey, it's December

here in sunny California, but the boys and girls are still
swimming in our pool. Can you hear them? Can you?"

My wife, just a child, heard her father on the telephone
and he would laugh and hang up and might be charming
or maybe he would be the cruel bastard, but there was no way
of knowing until he got off the phone, so she’d sit in her room

with a glass of water on the windowsill, and she’d be praying
to that glass of water, she’d be praying
to that telephone, she'd be praying to that swimming pool,
she'd be praying to that father, she'd be praying

like everything was two parts broken heart and one part hope.

[Sherman Alexie {1966- }, 'Water' from One Stick Song]