ABECEDARIAN REQUIRING FURTHER EXAMINATION
OF ANGLIKAN SERAPHYM SUBJUGATION OF A WILD
INDIAN REZERVATION
BY NATALIE DIAZ
Angels don’t come to the reservation.
Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things.
Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—
death. And death
eats angels, I guess, because I haven’t
seen an angel
fly through this valley ever.
Gabriel? Never heard of him. Know a guy named
Gabe though—
he came through here one powwow and stayed,
typical
Indian. Sure he had wings,
jailbird that he was. He flies around in stolen
cars. Wherever he stops,
kids grow like gourds from women’s bellies.
Like I said, no Indian I’ve ever heard of
has ever been or seen an angel.
Maybe in a Christmas pageant or something—
Nazarene church holds one every December,
organized by Pastor John’s wife. It’s
no wonder
Pastor John’s son is the angel—everyone
knows angels are white.
Quit bothering with angels, I say. They’re
no good for Indians.
Remember what happened last time
some white god came floating across the ocean?
Truth is, there may be angels, but if there
are angels
up there, living on clouds or sitting on thrones
across the sea wearing
velvet robes and golden rings, drinking whiskey
from silver cups,
we’re better off if they stay rich and fat
and ugly and
’xactly where they are—in their own distant
heavens.
You better hope you never see angels on the
rez. If you do, they’ll be marching
you off to
Zion or Oklahoma, or some other hell they’ve
mapped out for us.
