Why Indians Dream Basketball
It’s stickball, it’s chunkey, it’s bingo
down at the hall. It’s fill up the gym
with what I used to see, hear, and play–
time to make it right–
everything that’s been missing all these years.
I’m wishing to see me run,
ball going through the hoop this time,
I see Mama up in the stands,
she’s holding up the socks I forgot to pack.
I see my college professor saying not to write about sports,
I tell her if ball isn’t life then what
is form, momentum, losing
pace, I’m still trying to get these 20 points.
I hear Coach saying “If you’re scared go to church,” and
“I’m not your Mama, ain’t got no titty to suck on.”
I don’t even care about the gold championship ball,
this time before the game I wear a dress,
beautician comes courtside and washes my hair
in mud as the other boys come by
and touch it for good luck.
Learnt
Fuck a form
if I don’t
got one.
Throw out my back doing
all this
dancing
around,
but
my words ain’t shit,
shit.
I look so smart
to hide
behind:
the hurt and pain,
might forget
I’m human
at all.
When I talk good,
a rattling snake’s tail
or thunder,
a big, big noise
for someone to care bout me.
I’ll cross a line
to matter.
Pity me, the poet.
Wakaya Wells is a Two-Spirit Choctaw writer from Hugo, Oklahoma and the author of The Choctaw Word for Crazy, a debut poetry collection set for release in April 2027. Wakaya first discovered poetry while growing up in a Southern Baptist church, navigating the complexities of being Queer and Indigenous in the Bible Belt. Their writing has consistently emerged from a foundation of healing, community, and growth. They hold a MFA in fiction from the Institute of American Indian Arts, and BA in Native American Studies from Dartmouth College. They live in New Hope, Minnesota with their family.
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