"Michael Kautz"

White men fish below the bridge,
close to where their parked cars
cram the road. Me and Tim fish
below the old train track bridge
on the Res. The trees are thick here.
We have to leap through the gaps
to reach water, like controlled falling.
Like a shot at deer. Like spirits.
We plop on a rock, cast our hooked
flies out for a bite. The beer tastes
dirty. Who would you rather have
sex with?
Tim asks over and over.
Always, your mom, I say. We leave
with five fish and climb the steep
mud. We make it home in time for
WWF: Stone Cold vs. Lesnar LIVE.
The hoped for cries of bone–
crunching pain and fan applause
pour from t.v. to living room. Then,
Cold loses and Tim gets pissed.
He shoves me to the floor. So I beat
him back. A line of blue Indian blood
crawls from his nose to his lips.
And I want to go back. When was it
that time fell in loops? I want to go back,
before white men, beer, wrestling;
when the Nisqually rushed boundless
and I was something different.