For My Substitute On Veteran’s Day
            for Steve Ross

As with most names, it fit like a new pair of boots,
           rubbing the wrong places
and missing the right ones.
            But a gift is a gift and you don’t check the teeth.
Just put the thing on and wear it.

Sometimes I’d think,
            “Why not something beautiful:  Distant Thunder,
Yellow Cloud, White Buffalo?”
          Of course, Steve’s an amateur at name giving,
a greenhorn ogichidaa, though a warrior all the same,
            a wrestler with dreams and pressed into service.
Waasechi Ganaabik, the simply called upon.
            A hole that lets the light in.  That’s Steve.

But I’ve worn it nonetheless, the name,
            over blisters, encouragement and badgering,
my stupid grin when it is spoken.
            Proud to have it, but too dumb to understand.

But anyway,
            this afternoon I went to see my Grandfather.
Put some tobacco in the wind,
            rolled up a ball of sage
and crawled into the lodge.
            We had to talk.

When I turned twenty
            I got a letter from my uncle, Sam.
“Greeting,” he said, and invited me down to Des Moines
            to look up my crack, poke, measure and weigh me.
I had drawn number 78.
            Nixon was bringing us back together
and I was riding the shirt tails of the war at home.

I don’t know about scared to die,
            none of that seemed real to me.
Didn’t want to cut my hair,
            leave my girl,
say, “Yes Sir!  No Sir!”. . .
            Just plain didn’t wanta go
and didn’t eat for seven days.
            Flunked the exam by four pounds, dripping wet.

Now, for seven times seven years
            plus a few,
I’ve lied about my whereabouts at draft time.
            But today
I thought about the man who took my place, Grandfather.
            Does he live?  Does he sleep with the lights on when he sleeps at all?
Do wingeegoes prowl his nights with war clubs,
            hissing his name?  “Number seventy-eight, we’ll get you yet!”
Or is he now my ancestor?
            Grandfather, did he go west as a young man
in a rice paddy, in a land already far away?
            Does his mom still wait up for him?
Did he crap his jockey shorts
            when he heard the trip wire “click?”
Did he go one piece at a time,
            the leg swelling like blood sausage,
the brain clawing for quiet,
            his lungs gulping for air
but drowning on the words, “Dear God?”

I hope not.  God in heaven
            I wish that he could be unscathed
and whole.

With half my life before me, Grandfather,
            I will never know.
I need your help.

I burn this sage for him, or for his ghost.
            Would you take a message?  Would you find him for me, please?
Gitchie Manitou, too old to name, would you?
            Tell him
that I’m coming out of hiding,
            that I will wear this shame
for him.
            That he stood in for me.
That he saved my scrawny, undeserving ass.
            Migwitch.  Tell him that for me.

And now, half my life gone by,
            I accept this name, Agiwadiis Wabooz,
Crazy Rabbit.
            Having run, hidden in the earth, cried like a child,
I live to tell.

Migwitch.  May the eagle bring you gratitude.
            May my children sing your name.

.

Leonard (Hardy) Coleman was born in Navasota, Texas in his grandfather’s clinic on October 29, 1952. He passed away unexpectedly at the age of 71 on March 26, 2024 in Minneapolis. His parents’ divorce unfortunately threw him and his siblings into a world that was completely unfamiliar. Experiences from that life became the fodder for many stories and poems. He was a poet, playwright, author, actor, cabbie, storyteller-extraordinaire, as well as a cook in a wonderful vegetarian restaurant who once took an order from Bianca Jagger and also served members of the B-52s. As a teenager, he broke horses to ride and was a pole racer. He was the kindest man I ever knew, and was truly a friend to all.” – (Patricia Enger -Hardy’s Partner)