Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World by Sherman Alexie

This week, a poem by American Indian poet Sherman Alexie. Grief Calls Us is funny, unpretentious and bluntly human.   Notice how smoothly the poem springboards into the abstract in the last three stanzas, where the poet's anger finally comes forward.

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because

He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,

I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Sherman Alexie, a Spokane/Coeur d'Alene Indian, is the author of many books and was a three time World Poetry Slam Champion.