All people can be divided into two groups:
those who divide people into two groups,
and those who do not.

We call the people who divide people into two groups
"them," and we call those who do not
"us."  Sometimes, we call "them" "the Others."

Let us say some things about the Others:
they are grown fat with their unjust ways.  They
hate us.  They are the source of the Smell — ha,

they are overripe with it.  If you were to crack open
the "O" at the beginning of the word "Others," it would be
as though a durian had been split in a closet

and left to rot.  In fact, the Others
are the splitters of all fruit.  All carcasses
are split by them too.  We

are the stitchers of that which is split.  All people, then, may be split
into two groups: the splitters of things, and those
who guard that which can be split.  We call the Splitters

the others, the guardians are called "us." The splitters
are known for their cunning, their conspiracies, their incoherent
justice.  If you were to straighten out the "S" at the beginning

of the word "Splitters," you see that it is a snake’s spine
and they have been holding the serpent close to their breasts
since the beginning of days.  Venom is their milk, and we

are their silent milkmaids.  We are the ones who carry
the venom to their tables.   It sloshes onto us and we are burned
daily.  All people, in fact, may be divided into two groups:

those who are burned, and those who are burning us,
or those who are poisoned and those who live on poison, or those who
worship division and those who pray for shielding and healing.

All people can be divided into two groups.
These groups are called "us" and "the Others."
It is as lamentable as It is observable, and it can be proven as follows:

all people can be divided into two groups —
those who divide people into two groups,
and the dead. 

— headline on a news story, August 29, 2008

Matthew, who covers accountants,
is sharpening pencils, placing each one
into a lead lined box
so they won’t float away this time.

Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, the messengers,
are rehearsing. Brass is their specialty
and they’re dropping a little swing into their fanfares
because — well, just because.

Anthony of Padua lays out the magnifying glasses,
the dowsing rods, the long poles for probing
deep water, the black bags for the recoveries.
He is the finder.  He will be ready.

Everyone’s busy — Genevieve, disasters; Jude, desperate causes;
Martin de Porres, race relations; Joseph, of course,
overseeing both death and social justice, is working out,
getting in shape, doubling up on his reps.

Me?  I’m Anthony the Abbot.  This is Elizabeth Seton,
and to her right is Jerome Emiliani — in charge of
gravediggers, lost parents, and orphans, respectively.
We’re on standby, coming to you live

from a place somewhere nearby, somewhere hot and sticky
and not exactly forgotten, somewhere not exactly anyone’s idea
of Heaven anymore.  Bernadine, who has responsibility
for public relations, tells us not to mention the name

just in case anyone should draw conclusions about us
and our readiness last time.  I’ll say this much: sometimes,
we do our best and the worst still happens.  When it does,
it’s usually because we counted on help from those

with boots on the ground, no matter how soggy it gets
they’ve still gotta do their part if we’re to be of any service
at all.  That didn’t happen.  We’ll see what goes down this time,
I guess.  Foresight doesn’t fall into our jurisdiction.

Oh, in case you were curious — yes, there are two among us
who bear those names.  They’re old, and we don’t trust them
with anything of consequence anymore; don’t confuse them
with their namesakes, though.  We cause nothing to happen:

we’re all about the aftermath.

This time of year, when the good weather
is winding down, swans appear on ponds and lakes
everywhere, their glorious, Art Nouveau necks
slipping through the mirrors
into the brown-green muck below.

They don’t want you to remember
that they rose to this
from their birth as sin-ugly ashy cygnets,
that they rode on their parents’ handsome backs
until they were ready to take their places,

so if you get too close
they will attack, breaking your limbs
with angelic weapons, fervently trying
to cut you open with their cruddy,
razored mouths, working every ounce of their weight

to keep you from thinking of the way
their eyes are black, all black,
with no light shining through from inside;
to keep you from thinking of anything except
the arc of their feeding, their classical poise.

1. (in an office at work)
“they hate white guys like us.”
“i’m not white.”
“what do you mean?”
“my father’s Mescalero.”
“oh, that doesn’t count.”

2. (in a bar)
“you’re a conquered people
and you’re just going to have
to get used to that.”

3. (at my nonni’s house)
“your father steals from me
every time he’s in my house.”
“no, he didn’t, nonni.”
“he does. he stole a knife. he stole money.
i no understand why
your mother want to be
with those Indian peoples.
it’s good you look like her father.”

4. (my father’s way of saying how bad the pain was)
“i’ve got a headache
that would kill a white man.”

5. (at school)
“your dad brought two colored kids
home for the weekend to stay over?”
“yes.”
“did they smell funny? do Indians
get along with them? i didn’t know that.”

6. (at the office)
“oh, i love Indians! Indians
are so beautiful — i love their feathers
and the way they dance. do you dance?
do you have feathers?”

7. (at school)
“how come your sister
looks like a chink
and you look like a wop?”

8. (driving with my dad)
“i’m never gonna marry
a white girl.”
“son, your mother’s white.
it doesn’t matter sometimes.
marry who you love.”

9. (outside a club)
“don’t you really hate seeing these kids
running around with mohawks
when they’re not even Indian?”

10. (in a coffee shop)
“take your glasses off.
oh, yeah, i can see it now.”

11. (at work)
“now that your hair is long,
i can really see it.”

12. (too many times to choose)
“now that i know, of course,
it’s obvious.”

13. (at school)
“i’m really surprised
that you have to shave.
does your father have to shave?”

14. (during a performance review)
“aren’t you a little old
for this? i mean, aren’t you supposed
to have gotten over this, had a vision quest
or something when you were young?”

15. (too many times, too many bars)
“should you be drinking this much,
i mean, you know, fire water and all that?”

16. (at work)
“when your mother makes lasagna,
does she use buffalo in the sauce?”

17. (third week, introduction to anthropology, freshman year)
“so, you’re Italian and you’re Indian?
god, you must have a temper.”

18. (junior year, private school)
“jesus, put away the knife! what are you — crazy?
it’s just a word, you are a half-breed,right?
that’s what you are, right?
i’m sorry, jesus, i’m sorry, i didn’t know,
how’m i supposed to know that? you’re fucking
crazy!”

19. (being interviewed for someone’s grad thesis)
“so, how do you describe yourself?”
‘i don’t, i guess. not really. not anymore.
i guess ‘poet’ works as well as anything.”

“which side do you get that from?”

20. (first time in Italy)
“my mom’s family’s from around naples.”
“but this isn’t Napoli. why you come here?”
“because i’ve always wanted to see Venice.”
“you should see Napoli. you should see.”
“next time, maybe.”
“yes, next time. something there for you, maybe.
maybe home.”
“yes, maybe.”

21. ( first time on the rez)
“i’m looking for records, anything.
my father was born here, was sent to a residential school
and joined the army after,
he lost touch with every one, never came back.”

“there are no records, though. everything
was lost in a fire back in ’67. i’m sorry. you’ll have to do
some work to prove it, if you’re interested in being on the rolls –“
“no, that’s not it. i just wanted — something.
anything.”

“well…
welcome home.”