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Piss-legged, drag-assed khakis tucked into jump-boots,
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a sleeping-bag coat torn by river-bank blackberries—
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parks himself across on the bench opposite the man
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writing at a riverside picnic table. Clears his throat:
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"Asking you a favor—guess my age. Close enough.
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Thirty-eight this year, okay. Ask me a question,
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any question. Know I’m Indian, yeah? Cheyenne,
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Montana. Damn Indians, all they know is how
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to do one thing: drink. Okay, here’s the joke.
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How do you track an Indian? Go on, guess—
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I’m listening. No? Put your ear to the wind
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for the sound of the guy crying, 'Hey bro, I’m thirsty!'"
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He unstraps a sweaty watchband, pushes the watch
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across the table. Digs one pocket for change—nickels,
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pennies, a dime—pours them around the watch.
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Three knuckles are bloody, the forearm protruding
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from his sweatshirt scored with long cuts, some scabbed,
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some fresh. He parts the midnight hair over his eyes:
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"Hey bro—another favor: drink with me? Take
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that watch for a dollar or two, go up to Hop Sing’s
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and get us a beer. You got to get it, bro,
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Hop Sing won’t dispense to me, damn Indian.
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So ask me a question, I’m listening. Name’s Wolverine.
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Only know how to do one damn thing—"
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He raises two fingers, points at a clutch of children
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in a wading pool. Cocks his thumb, cradles one arm
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like a gunstock, squints through an invisible scope.
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The neck tightens, pulling his lip into wolverine snarl;
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then rifle-recoil. Then the benign gaze of a full-time drunk.
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"My first rifle? Pellet gun. Plinking quail. Plink
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the rancher’s chickens when they strayed. One day
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saw this hippie thumbing on the highway
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while I was beating through sagebrush. Thought,
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Why not? Just a bigger sort of target. Didn’t guess
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I’d score at that distance, but plink—he claps
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his leg like a big horsefly nailed him, Ow!
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Goddam Ow! No idea who ambushed him.
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So I see I got a gift to sell to Uncle Sam."
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Groomed as a marksman, flown to Kuwait. Sniper duty
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plinking Saddam’s waterboys wading the dunes. Their hair
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black as his, heads poking out at sunrise in the crosshairs.
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They don’t fall to be found, pocketed like quail, they fall
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away behind dunes, unconfirmed kills. He can hear
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their water-cans leaking through the sand of his dreams.
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"Push the shirt up my arm. Farther. You got
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to push, bro, this other arm’s broke. Yeah,
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see that? Dog soldier. That’s the mark,
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like a crosshair, north east south west,
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grandfather’s four directions. Cut it myself.
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I’m a killer and I’m hurting. I can see you’re scared,
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a quail in the sage—don’t know which way
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to run. No fear, bro, my woman outranks me.
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Traded my rifle for Uncle Sam beans and cheese.
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He’s got a warehouse in Montana where
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our women line up to change bullets into beans."
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He wants the white man to rouse himself, take coins
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and wristwatch, raise him by his good arm to see Hop Sing
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about a canister of eight percent oblivion. He wants
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the invisible woman to trade him back one bullet full
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of all the water telescoped in the desert to plant
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beneath his wolverine chin. He wants a quail to claw
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his eyes, a mother to say No, a grandfather to sing
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West South East North, raising burnt sage in his palm.
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"Hop Sing’s is two blocks south. Drink a beer
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with me or walk me home, I’m hurting.
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This park’s a graveyard where clouds bury
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old water. Don’t turn round, bro,
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the black and whites are talking about us—
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—guess Hop Sing told them I was on the way, damn Indian."
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A police cruiser idles across the street. It’s a good day
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to walk away, the white man thinks. Then hands back
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the watch he has bought, and helps Wolverine to his feet.
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"My woman outranks me. Should I snipe her?
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Yes or no. Tell me my mother says No, tell me.
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Can you feel the shotgun pellets in my shoulder?
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Like stars in the river of grandfathers. Go on
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and touch them, bro, keep your hand there—"
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When their feet reach the edge of the park, jump-boot
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and sandal, black and whites bracket them. “Hold up,
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chief,” one blueshirt says. Another bends to his shoulder-radio,
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hand on holster. “Hands out of pockets. Sit on the curb.
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Name?” The white man expects to hear "Wolverine;"
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the answer is "White Crow, Leroy." Date of birth? "1967."
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Home? "The riverbank." The blueshirts ask the white man
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the same questions; the radio pronounces him free to go.
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“Walk away, professor,” the blueshirt advises. It’s sunny,
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mayflies unregulated as a drunk sniper’s thoughts blow east.
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The writer walks north to his car, the black and whites
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separate, east and west, and Leroy White Crow,
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a fresh ten in his pocket, alone again on legs
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too thin for his jump boots, wobbles south.
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His father is jailed two counties south for stabbing
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a logger in the cheek; he could use a visit.
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Somehow Leroy must get there—burrowing
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through roadside nights like Wolverine, or floating
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above Interstate 5 fog like White Crow--
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and he will. Even if his good arm breaks
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against some windshield, even if he’s knocked
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out of piss-legged khakis by a logging truck
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and reduced to a cloud of mayflies over a ditch,
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he will go south to bring drink to his father’s lips.
