Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel.

Bone basin bone throne bone lamp.

Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery,

slick rosary bead—Deme la gracia of a decade

in this garden of carmine flora. Exile me

to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit,

laden tree—Imparadise me. Because, God,

I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth

for pear upon apple upon fig.

More than all that are your hips.

They are a city. They are Kingdom.

Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire—

thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth.

Beloved, your hips are the war.

At night your legs, love, are boulevards

leading me beggared and hungry to your candy

house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late

and the tables have been cleared,

in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake.

O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve,

a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips

are kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning

comets and big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon,

let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me

circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming

for your dark matter.

Along las calles de tus muslos I wander,

follow the parade of pulse like a drum line—

descend into your Plaza del Toros—

hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros.

Your arched hips—ay, mi torera.

Down the long corridor, your wet walls

lead me like a traje de luces—all glittered, glowed.

I am the animal born to rush your rich red

muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan—

a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner

thigh. Here I must enter you, mi pobre

Manolete—press and part you like a wound—

make the crowd pounding in the grandstand

of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.

Top Ten Reasons Why Indians Are Good at Basketball

1.

The same reason we are good in bed.

2.

Because a long time ago, Creator gave us a choice: You can write like an Indian god, or you can have a jump shot sweeter than a 44oz. can of government grape juice—one or the other. Everyone but Sherman Alexie chose the jump shot.

3.

We know how to block shots, how to stuff them down your throat, because when you say, Shoot, we hear howitzer and Hotchkiss and Springfield Model 1873.

4.

When Indian ballers sweat, we emit a perfume of tortillas and Pine-Sol floor cleaner that works like a potion to disorient our opponents and make them forget their plays.

5.

We grew up knowing that there is no difference between a basketball court and church. Really, the Nazarenes hold church in the tribal gym on Sunday afternoons—the choir belts out “In the Sweet By and By” from the low block.

6.

When Walt Whitman wrote, The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race, he really meant that all Indian men over age 40 have a pair of vintage Air Jordans in their closets and believe they are still magic-enough to make even the largest commod bod able to go coast to coast and finish a layup.