You should know this is my kind of poem

Thursday, April 1st, 2010 by Rachel

Sherman Alexie

 

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

 

What can you say about a movie so horrific even its title scares people away?
-Stephen King

 

I
have seen it
and I like it: The blood,
the way like Sand Creek
even its name brings fear,
because I am an American
Indian and have learned
words are another kind of violence.

 

This vocabulary is genetic.
When Leatherface crushes the white boy’s skull
with a sledgehammer, brings it down again and again
while the boy’s arms and legs spasm and kick wildly
against real and imagined enemies, I remember

 

another killing floor

 

in the slaughter yard from earlier in the film,
all the cows with their stunned eyes and mouths
waiting for the sledgehammer with fear so strong
it becomes a smell that won’t escape. I remember

 

the killing grounds

 

of Sand Creek
where 105 Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho women and children
and 28 men were slaughtered by 700 heavily armed soldiers,
led by Colonel Chivington and his Volunteers. Volunteers.

 

Violence has no metaphors; it does have reveille.

 

Believe me, there is nothing surprising
about a dead body. This late in the twentieth century
tears come easily and without sense:
taste and touch have been replaced
by the fear of reprisal. I have seen it

 

and like it: The butchery, its dark humor
that thin line “between art and exploitation,”
because I recognize the need to prove blood
against blood. I have been in places
where I understood Tear his heart out
and eat it whole. I have tasted rage
and bitterness like skin between my teeth.

 

I have been in love.

 

I first saw it in the reservation drive-in
and witnessed the collected history
of America roll and roll across the scree,
voices and dreams distorted by tin speakers.
Since then, I have been hungry
For all those things I haven’t seen.

 

This country demands that particular sort of weakness:
we must devour everything on our plates
and ask for more. Our mouths hinge open.
Our teeth grow long and we gnaw them down
to prevent their growth into the brain. I have

 

seen it and like it: The blood,
the way like music
it makes us all larger
and more responsible
for our sins,
because I am an American
Indian and have learned

 

hunger becomes madness easily.