Years ago, in Spokane, a woman saved
A family of orphaned baby geese.
An amateur ornithologist, she raised
Those birds into adulthood, and then released

Them into the pond at Manito Park,
Where a dozen swans, elegant and white,
Tore the tame geese open and ate their hearts.
Of course, all of this was broadcast live

On the local news. Eyewitnesses wept.
My mother and I shrugged, not at death,
But at those innocent folks who believe
That birds don't murder, rape, and steal.

Like us, swans can be jealous and dangerous,
And, oh, so lovely, sure and monogamous.

When my father left me (and my mother
And siblings), to binge-drink for days and weeks,
I always wept myself into nosebleeds.
And sure, you might think this is another
Poem about a wounded father and son,
But honestly, the only blood was mine,
And it flowed from absence, not from a punch
Or kick. My father, drunk or not, was kind
And passive, and never lifted a fist
To strike. Drunk daddy only hit the road,
And I'd become the rez Hamlet who missed
His father so much that he bled red ghosts.
Years later, in Seattle, my nose bled
When my mom called and said, "Your father is dead."

My wife wanted to give my sons the chance
To see my tribe's powwow with transparent eyes,
And maybe fall in love with the chicken dance,

But I stayed home. They wouldn't hear my crazy rants
About the powwow bullies who made me cry.
My wife wanted to give my sons the chance

To enjoy themselves. "Listen, I just can't
Go with you," I said to my wife, who was unsurprised
By my need to spin a different chicken dance.

"They can hang with their uncles and aunts,"
I said. "And my mother, she'll be so surprised
That my sons have been give the chance

To powwow." And so my wife and sons drove, sans
Father, to my rez on a Saturday night
And spent hours watching the chicken dance.

And, yes, I remember pissing my pants
When I saw the reds of my bullies' eyes,
But my wife gave my sons an aboriginal chance
Because they fell in love with the chicken dance."

These days, it's too easy to make mix tapes.
CD burners, iPods, and iTunes
Have taken the place
Of vinyl and cassette. And, soon
Enough, clever introverts will create
Quicker point-and-click ways to declare
One's love, lust, friendship, and favor.
But I miss the labor
Of making old school mix tapes--the mid air

Acrobatics of recording one song
At a time. It sometimes took days
To play, choose, pause,
Ponder, record, replay, erase,
And replace. But there was no magic wand.
It was blue-collar work. A great mix tape
Was sculpture designed to seduce
And let the hounds loose.
A great mix tape was a three-chord parade

Led by the first song, something bold and brave,
A heat-seeker like Prince with "Cream,"
Or "Let's Get It on," by Marvin Gaye.
The next song was always Patsy Cline's "Sweet Dreams,"
Or something by Hank. But O, the last track
Was the vessel that contained
The most devotion and pain
And made promises that you couldn't take back.

I am always amused
By those couples--

Lovers and spouses--
Who perform and ask

Others to perform
Musical chairs

Whenever they, by
Random seat selection,

Are separated
From each other.

"Can you switch
Seats with me?"

A woman asked me.
"So I can sit

With my husband?"
She wanted me,

A big man, who
Always books early,

And will gratefully
Pay extra for the exit row,

To trade my aisle seat
For her middle seat.

By asking me to change
My location for hers,

The woman is actually saying to me:

"Dear stranger, dear
Sir, my comfort is

More important than yours.
Dear solitary traveler,

My love and fear--
As contained

Within my marriage--
Are larger than yours."

O, the insult!
O, the condescension!

And this is not
An isolated incident.

I've been asked
To trade seats

Twenty or thirty times
Over the years.

How dare you!
How dare you

Ask me to change
My life for you!

How imperial!
How colonial!

But, ah, here is
The strange truth:

Whenever I'm asked
To trade seats

For somebody else's love,
I do, I always do.