Generic Indian Ennui

My mom and I don’t spend

all day talking about the white

priests who raped Great Grandma

Marie, unless it’s a poem. Suffering

is boring. Do you know how big

the word genocide is? How long.

I’m taking a class on Indian

temporalities. I tell my mom about it

only when we’re in the car. Stand still

on CA-whatever west. Her back hunched

like a buffalo over the steering wheel.

The traffic like I don’t know. Some

imagery here about burden, endurance.

I say, we talked about the apocalypse

today. Oh? she says, a feigned

interest to my feigned interest.

Both her hands clenched, one

steering. She closed her eyes

a while ago. Yeah. It was about how

                we are living

our ancestors’ dystopia. I try to talk

about it like the class did. Like there’s joy

in surviving. In knowing

the worst has already come. I curl

my fingers under her fist, disarm it.

Does that make you feel better?

My mom falls back, opens

her eyes. Not really, she says.