I Am Apache
You stabbed me twice in my stomach.
I was brave and did not drink
Or smoke marijuana.
I did not ask you to marry.
I asked only that you face me
And handcuff your wrists to mine
For a week or two.
Now, I am off to concrete jail cells
In Honk Kong and Istanbul and Monrovia.
They promise to provide me with juice,
But I will sip only tea.
I will break free in a year or two,
And I will send shy smoke signals once again
To girls who cannot be as pretty as you.
Then, one will send me faint signals back.
We will converse about the weak economy,
But soon, as if preordained, she will say:
“You may not buy drinks for me anymore.
Why don’t you have a job and a car?”
I will remove the old Band-Aids from my abdomen
And examine the scars.
Then I will say: “Do you know about Chiricahua Apache?”
She will say: “You are weird. No, I don’t.”
Unvanquished, I will turn once more
To my wigwam and my blanket and the fire.