Generic Indian Ennui
My mom and I don’t spend
all day talking about the white
priests who raped Great Grandma
Marie, unless it’s a poem. Suffering
is boring. Do you know how big
the word genocide is? How long.
I’m taking a class on Indian
temporalities. I tell my mom about it
only when we’re in the car. Stand still
on CA-whatever west. Her back hunched
like a buffalo over the steering wheel.
The traffic like I don’t know. Some
imagery here about burden, endurance.
I say, we talked about the apocalypse
today. Oh? she says, a feigned
interest to my feigned interest.
Both her hands clenched, one
steering. She closed her eyes
a while ago. Yeah. It was about how
we are living
our ancestors’ dystopia. I try to talk
about it like the class did. Like there’s joy
in surviving. In knowing
the worst has already come. I curl
my fingers under her fist, disarm it.
Does that make you feel better?
My mom falls back, opens
her eyes. Not really, she says.
