The boarding school in Albuquerque
where most of these poems came from
was an interesting place, because there
were four or five churches that surrounded the boarding school.
There was the Mormon church, the Catholic, Christian Reformed,
Presbyterian, and there was one other church.
So every Sunday, we'd have to go to these churches.
And so I wrote a poem about being at the boarding school
and having to go to these churches.
It's called "The Sacrament."
"The Sacrament.
One Sunday morning after a spring rain, Mary Lou and I
went behind the Mormon church on the corner of Cutler
and Indian School Road.
There among the wet grass and soft brown Earth,
the air smelled heavy with primordial smells
of leaves, roots, and water.
I don't remember who suggested it, but as if by some instinct,
we scooped a handful of dirt into our mouths.
It was like so many marbles rolling and scattering,
crunching between our teeth.
Later, we sat in a neat row of metal folding chairs
while the acne-faced Mormons broke up slices of white bread
as we sang.
As we eat the broken bread, thine approval on us
shed, as we drink the water clear.
Occasionally, a grain or two of sand
still crunched in our mouths."
I don't know how many of you--
after it rains, there's this very beautiful smell
that comes from the wet Earth.
I don't know how many of you have ever felt like eating dirt
when you smell that, but I did.
We used to eat dirt.
And this home came about because a friend of mine,
we were waiting for the doors to open.
And we were standing around outside,
and this water was dripping.
We each took some dirt and put it in our mouths.
And so when I go to my poetry readings,
I always ask people, how many of you here have eaten dirt?
And usually, Indian people always raise their hand.
I eat dirt.
I like dirt.