So one of the things with my book--
on the cover of my book is my little brother.
So this is kind of an important book for me
because I dealt with family.
And that's, I think, a really difficult thing for people
to deal with.
And sometimes, you feel like you're giving away secrets,
or you're saying things you shouldn't
say airing your dirty laundry, things like that.
So I'm going to read a couple of poems.
I'm going to read one that takes place on my reservation you
know, imaginatively.
So I'm taking real life events and real life emotions,
and then, I'm imagining things a little bit.
And then, I'm going to read a couple of poems
about my brother.
This is called "Reservation Mary."
"Mary Lambert was born at the Indian hospital on the res.
She never missed a three-pointer in the first 13
years of her life.
She started smoking pot in seventh grade,
still never missed a three-pointer.
But eventually, missed most of her freshman classes
and finally, dropped out of high school.
A year or so later, a smooth-faced Mojave,
who had a jump shot smoother than a silver can of commodity
shortening and soared for rebounds
like he was made of red tail hawk feathers,
visited her res for a money tournament.
His team won the money, and he won MVI, Most Valuable Indian.
Afterward, at the little bar on the corner of Indian route one,
where the only people not allowed to drink
were dialysis patients, he told Mary she was his favorite.
His first string, that he dropped all those buckets
for her.
He spent his entire cut of the tournament winnings
on her Wild Turkey and Cokes.
Told her he was going to stay the night with her,
even though it was already morning when
they stumbled from the bar.
He stayed, and stayed, and stayed, then left.
Her heart felt pierced with spears and arrows,
and her belly swelled round as an August melon.
That was a lifetime ago.
Now, she's 17.
She kept the baby and the weight and sells famous fry bread
and breakfast burritos at tribal entities on paydays, tortillas
round and chewy as communion wafers
embracing Comanches and government potatoes delivered
in tin foil from the trunk of an old brown Buick
with a cracked windshield and a pair of baby Jordan shoes
hanging from the rearview mirror.
Her sleeping brown baby tied tightly into a cradle board
in the back seat.
Just the other day at a party on first beach someone
asked if she still had that three-point touch, if she
wished she still played ball.
And she answered that she wished a lot of things.
But what she wished for most, at that moment,
was that she could turn the entire Colorado
River into E&J Ripple.
She went on a beer run instead.
And as she made her way over the bumpy back roads
along the river that smooth faced baby in the back seat
cried out for something."