Stopping for Gas on the Reservation
by Shoshauna Shy
Probably a fifth grader, jeans held up
with a belt, both hand-me-downs,
both too big for him.
When he says the money you should
give him will help buy jerseys for his team
—and holds up the sandwich bag
with rumpled dollar bills—you want
to believe him, believe there’s a coach
who cares about hamstring stretches,
parents who fill bowls for breakfast,
then a grandstand.
Orange Popsicle stains his mouth,
eyes squint against a South Dakota sun
baking neighboring houses
into dusty surrender.
When he claims he’s the pitcher
and their record is eight-oh-and-oh,
you think he knows you suspect
that whatever you give him will go
towards more Popsicles or Snickers
or whatever it is ten-year-old boys
buy in towns with only one grocery,
one truck stop.
You have fives but keep pulling tens
out of your wallet for his outstretched
palm—One for the massacre
at Wounded Knee, another for the fact
that this is where his people live,
and one in apology for ever thinking
he was a liar in the first place.
