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You may talk o’ gin and beer When you’re quartered safe out ’ere, An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it. Now in Injia’s sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din, He was ‘Din! Din! Din! ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din! ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao ‘Water, get it!Panee lao, ‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’ The uniform ’e wore Was nothin’ much before, An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind, For a piece o’ twisty rag An’ a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment ’e could find. When the sweatin’ troop-train lay In a sidin’ through the day, Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl, We shouted ‘Harry By!’ Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all. It was ‘Din! Din! Din! ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been? ‘You put some juldee in it ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’ ’E would dot an’ carry one Till the longest day was done; An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin’ nut, ’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear. With ’is mussick on ’is back, ’E would skip with our attack, An’ watch us till the bugles made 'Retire,’ An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide ’E was white, clear white, inside When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’ With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front-ranks shout, ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!’ I shan’t forgit the night When I dropped be’ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been. I was chokin’ mad with thirst, An’ the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din. ’E lifted up my ’ead, An’ he plugged me where I bled, An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green. It was crawlin’ and it stunk, But of all the drinks I’ve drunk, I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was 'Din! Din! Din! ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen; ‘’E's chawin’ up the ground, ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around: ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’ ’E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean. ’E put me safe inside, An’ just before ’e died, 'I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din. So I’ll meet ’im later on At the place where ’e is gone— Where it’s always double drill and no canteen. ’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals Givin’ drink to poor damned souls, An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I’ve belted you and flayed you, By the livin’ Gawd that made you, You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

At one friend's home whole arsenals of guns litter the lawn—bright plastic shapes my sons pick their ways between to take proffered popsicles. Later, on evening news, words like "ambush,"  "strike," and "friendly fire" punctuate glowing clips of wreckage in far fields where other mother's children kneel to aim and pray. And though it's clichéd, truth be told, I wish one could keep her boys from growing old and going off to die. Toys need not rush us there. Instinct? No harm? An urge to hoist whatever's there, hard- wired within? Perhaps ignoble, I'm still glad when one spits on his own:They're bad.

Here comes the wise man in the story of sick times, telling you how to find the passage of satisfaction. He is many million years old and has been walking many thousand miles, more miles, more lengths of road than the shrunk-up earth of these days possesses, to find you. He has a veda from before creation to sing you and, lo and behold, it is about you, it means everything to you. Though they’ve made a rope out of rough, heavy smoke, like a whale-thick hawser for a steamer of dead star, and pulled it through you from throat to crotch, from ear to ear, and hag-tied your hands and feet with the ends, though each of them has your own face molten with leprosy, though your brain makes the sound of crowded trains colliding in Kashmir and a stadium that roars hosanna, it is still possible now, in the next moment, to know God. That is, not die in confusion. But maybe, then, this guru is too soon. Maybe he hasn’t come from far enough. Maybe he’s still much too young. Maybe he’s never asked himself clearly what happens when someone like you hears that a lightning-opened living fig tree or a mountain and a blue sky can be lived in and sets out on the long road never moving from his realm in pain.

american indian outside the guthrie forever wounded by tributes high western movie mockery decorations invented names trade beads federal contracts limps past the new theater wounded indian comes to attention on a plastic leg and delivers a smart salute with the wrong hand precious children muster nearby theatrical poses under purple tapestries castles and barricades on stage with reservation plans native overscreams rehearsed on stage at sand creek blaze of bodies at mystic river frozen ghost dancers chased to death by the seventh cavalry at wounded knee culture wars wound the heart and dishonor the uniform forsaken warriors retire overnight in cardboard suites under the interstates american indian decorated for bravery invented names salutes the actors with the wrong hand at the guthrie treaties break behind the scenes night after night the actors new posers mount and ride on perfect ponies out to the wild cultural westerns hilly suburbs with buffalo bill

We fix you maternally in the mind, orient you in a case of “tut-tut,” “there there,” and “you’re young yet,” but how many times did you posture yourself for the broad body of him or him and open like home — his hands in your hair, your nerves rising kinetically to the cupola of his palms? Lovers’ propensity for being a keep and your saying (when you mean it), “I am yours.” We fix you in the mind as bright-sighted seminar, dipping from the source all that you know, but how often did your eyes light in flirtation or fight, working from his getting your dander up to his oval mouth there, there, your teasing tut-tut in arousing admonition at what he was after, knowing, as you prepared to keep him, that you were young yet and gleaning, gleaning.

she doesn’t wear costume jewelry & she knew that walt disney was/is making a fortune off false-eyelashes and that time magazine is the authority on the knee/grow. her makeup is total-real. a negro english instructor called her: “a fine negro poet.” a whi-te critic said: “she’s a credit to the negro race.” somebody else called her; “a pure negro writer.” johnnie mae, who’s a senior in high school said: “she and Langston are the only negro poets we’ve read in school and i understand her.” pee wee used to carry one of her poems around in his back pocket; the one about being cool. that was befo pee wee was cooled by a cop’s warning shot. into the sixties a word was born . . . . . . . . BLACK & with black came poets & from the poet’s ball points came: black doubleblack purpleblack blueblack beenblack was black daybeforeyesterday blackerthan ultrablack super black blackblack yellowblack niggerblack blackwhi-te- man blackthanyoueverbes ¼ black unblack coldblack clear black my momma’s blackerthanyourmomma pimpleblack fall black so black we can’t even see you black on black in black by black technically black mantanblack winter black coolblack 360degreesblack coalblack midnight black black when it’s convenient rustyblack moonblack black starblack summerblack electronblack spaceman black shoeshineblack jimshoeblack underwearblack ugly black auntjimammablack, uncleben’srice black williebest black blackisbeautifulblack i justdiscoveredblack negro black unsubstanceblack. and everywhere the lady “negro poet” appeared the poets were there. they listened & questioned & went home feeling uncomfortable/unsound & so- untogether they read/re-read/wrote & rewrote & came back the next time to tell the lady “negro poet” how beautiful she was/is & how she helped them & she came back with: how necessary they were and how they’ve helped her. the poets walked & as space filled the vacuum between them & the lady “negro poet” u could hear one of the blackpoets say: “bro, they been calling that sister by the wrong name.”

De Camptown ladies sing dis song—Doo-dah! doo-dah! De Camp-town race-track five miles long—Oh! doo-dah day! I come down dah wid my hat caved in—Doo-dah! doo-dah! I go back home wid a pocket full of tin—Oh! doo-dah day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay. De long tail filly and de big black hoss—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Dey fly de track and dey both cut across—Oh! doo-dah-day! De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Can’t touch bottom wid a ten foot pole—Oh! doo-dah-day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay. Old muley cow come on to de track—Doo-dah! doo-dah! De bob-tail fling her ober his back—Oh! doo-dah-day! Den fly along like a rail-road car—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Runnin’ a race wid a shootin’ star—Oh! doo-dah-day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay. See dem flyin’ on a ten mile heat—Doo-dah doo-dah! Round de race track, den repeat—Oh! doo-dah-day! I win my money on de bob-tail nag—Doo-dah! doo-dah! I keep my money in an old tow-bag—Oh! doo-dah-day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay.

When the fog slunk in with that salivary, close, coyote panting, its hue a very huelessness, like breath huffed on a glass, like the void stretched and still stretching past where we’d thought it could, we felt less wary. We felt our shoulders loosen, surrendering to phantom hands and softly vanished feet. The sensation was a first and last: sweet to feel the vigilance at last suspending, the chronic stress of constantly pretending to know—have known!—what all the others knew. Loopy, sly, we leered at one another (what we just assumed was one another) and did the things we weren’t supposed to do, grinning as if seated in the back pew of a church that worshipped fuss and bother, a dour church where facial expression of any kind had been prohibited, and where the chinking, hefty plate we shifted hand to hand held such a vast collection of their coin, we pocketed a fraction for when the fog would lift, if it lifted. But stealing from them puts you in their power. Since then we have been paying for that hour.

That was the week it didn’t stop snowing. That was the week five-fingered trees fell on houses & power lines broke like somebody waiting for payday in a snowstorm. That snow week, my daughter & I trudged over the broken branches fidgeting through snow like hungry fingers through an empty pocket. Over the termite-hollowed stump as squat as a flat tire. Over the hollow the fox dives into when we open the back door at night. That was the week of snow & it glittered like every Christmas card we could remember while my daughter poked around for the best place to stand a snowman. One with a pinecone nose. One with thumb-pressed eyes to see the whole picture once things warm up.

In nyc , we stalked fishes in filets of sounds: delivery engines & ashy doors clapping shut, vendors knuckling fin & silhouette- shaped words into salty expectations. My daughter & I walked down a couple of  slim-bricked blocks that smelled like snapper & afro sheen with no afros in sight. On snaggletoothed streets, we double-took the wet alleys where things jumped off the hook like smart seafood before lunch. We parted the perfect & abundantly wintered streets. My daughter said,I know these parts