This next poem is called "Deer Dancer."
And I wanted to do something with this story
for a long time and I still don't think the story--
I think there's still more to go in the story,
but the poem I think is pretty much done,
and it was a story that I was told in an Indian bar up
in Milwaukee.
That what had happened, I guess, it was probably a Monday night
and it was even cold for the people there.
And there's just a few guys there, a few holdovers--
you know, the guys that will still be there when the bar is
long gone--
and they said this beautiful woman came in one night.
Her beauty was like nothing that they had ever seen before.
And they thought they knew what tribe she was
and they were trying to figure out what family.
And all the eyes were on her she walked over and bought a drink.
And then she went over and put a quarter in the jukebox
and it went and played, of all songs, that song, "Lucille."
You know, "you picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille."
And then got up on one of the tables
and took her clothes off to the song.
[LAUGHTER]
Well, I guess then what happened,
the guys all ran over and put a ton of quarters in the jukebox
and punched--
[LAUGHTER]
--punched Lucille, but I don't know what happened after that.
But I've always wondered about that woman.
What had happened and why she had come in
and put that particular song on and I
don't think that no one ever saw her after that.
"Deer Dancer."
Nearly everyone had left that bar in the middle of winter
except the hardcore.
It was the coldest night of the year.
Every place shut down, but not us.
Of course we noticed when she came in.
We were Indian ruins.
She was the end of beauty.
No one knew her, the stranger whose tribe we recognized.
Her family related to deer, if that's who she was.
A people accustomed to hearing songs in pine trees
and making them hearts.
The woman inside the woman who was
to dance naked in the bar of misfits, blue deer magic.
Henry Jack, who could not survive a sober day,
thought she was Buffalo Calf Woman come back, passed out,
his head by the toilet.
All night he dreamed a dream he couldn't say.
The next day he borrowed money, went home,
and sent back the money I lent.
Now that's a miracle.
Some people see vision in a burned tortilla,
some in the face of a woman.
This is the bar of broken survivors, the club of shotgun,
knife wound, of poison by culture.
We who were taught not to stare drank our beer.
The players gossiped down their cues.
Someone put a quarter in the jukebox to relive despair.
Richard's wife dove to kill her.
We had to hold her back, empty her pocket of knives and diaper
pins, buy her two drinks to keep her still,
while Richard secretly bought the beauty a drink.
How do I say it?
In this language there are no words
for how the real world collapses.
I could say it in my own and the sacred mounds
would come into focus, but I couldn't take it
in this dingy envelope.
So I look at the stars in this strange city,
frozen to the back of the sky, the only promises that
ever make sense.
My brother-in-law hung out with white people,
went to law school with a perfect record, quit.
Says you can keep your laws, your words, and practice law
on the street with his hands.
He jimmied to the proverbial dream
girl, the face of the moon, while the players
racked a new game.
Bragged, he told her magic lines,
and that's when she broke, became human.
But we all heard his bar voice crack.
What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?
That's what I'd like to know.
What are we all doing in a place like this?
You would know she could hear only what she wanted to.
Don't we all?
Left the drink of betrayal Richard bought her at the bar.
What was she on?
We all wanted some.
Put a quarter in the juke.
We all take risks stepping into thin air.
Our ceremonies didn't predict this or we expected more.
I had to tell you this, for the baby inside the girl sealed up
with a lick of hope and swimming into praise of nations.
This is not a rooming house but a dream of winter
falls and a deer who portrayed the relatives of strangers.
The way back is deer breath on icy windows.
The next dance none of us predicted.
She borrowed a chair for the stairway to heaven
and stood on a table of names and danced
in the room of children.