Cowboys and Indians
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When I was a young boy,
I played cowboys and Indians:
little injection-molded plastic
figures
of white and red,
– horses, too –
a fort, and
little plastic teepees.
With old testament wrath
I drove epic battles between
them:
cardboard dioramas of the
dead,
Crayon-marker-crimson blood
staining
the shoebox brown
landscapes.
In the end, only
the Indians were left.
Which only seemed right
Watch as We Were Taken
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Shackles wind about my wrist
The rusted color of my dreams
The color of our undoing
The color of our seams
Men in uniform yelling
They say we don’t belong
On land we’ve always cared for
Wherein we know each song
I see our mothers crying
As fathers load a cart
The little that we can fit
As we, this place, depart
Bleary eyed, from sleep disrupted
I stare at them
How are these white men so corrupted?
We knew not what they meant
The bite of midnight autumn air
The accusations thrown
How can their God be so fair,
If these men are his own?
Surely, Indians aren’t loved
Surely, we’re forsaken
Surely no God above
Watched as we were taken
how my blood falls
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show me
who you are
this time
I will believe you
for too long
I have stood
extending grace
handle-forward
blade filling my hand
oh look
how my blood falls
mercy-full
towards my feet
show me
who you are
this time
I will believe you
a smallpox blanket presented between covers of embossed leather
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no, no
that is not what she said
that is not how the story goes
Abaꞌ Binniꞌliꞌ did not create the world
Shakchi
with her sister Fala Ishtoꞌ
shaped what was not
into what is
Abaꞌ Binniꞌli was the one
who formed from earth
First Man and First Woman
and breathed life
into their lungs of clay
do not lay a smallpox blanket presented between covers of embossed leather
over the stories of the Ancestors
they knew nothing of
father, son, and holy ghost
and
they
were
content
Fire, Revision
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Neg Sequttahwhuteheg
They remain.
Even so.
They are are what is left.
After battles.
Every blow.
Every trick, and theft.
We.
Are what is left.
Through echos of time.
Precious memory lost,
We still remain.
Smile, ancestors
We’re not gone yet
Waawo'at kochcha
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Waawo Waawo
Waawo aachi
From a deep slumber
of a score less three
waawo’ emerge.
Waawo Waawo
Waawo aachi
greeted by the sounds of turtles
shaking mightily on the ground
They raise their own voices in song.
Waawo Waawo
Waawo aachi
Come to me, come to me,
Let us embrace before we die.
Waawo Waawo
Waawo aachi
When their offspring
emerge from their own rest.
the turtles will be shaking still.
kilinkiꞌ (for the Carolina parakeet)
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ki̱i ki̱i ki̱i
your collective voices
do not greet me only
silence
ki̱i ki̱i ki̱i
when I open drawer
there your cotton-stuffed skins
laying repose death
ki̱i ki̱i ki̱i
brilliant green yellow red
bellies to acoustic ceiling panels
of this colonial assembly
this dragon’s horde
ki̱i ki̱i ki̱i
it was not enough
that they took your lives
it was not enough
that they removed your skins
it was not enough
it is never enough
they will destroy
then weep
over the very thing that they have killed
again and again and again
ki̱i ki̱i ki̱i
is this the sound that you made?
I don’t know
how could I?
Take Your Medicine
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colonization
is a helluva drug, so
much so that sometimes
we swallow it whole.
wholly we drink it down, down.
take your medicine.
mothers create crowns
swan feathers plaited cloud white
stolen by the priest
replaced with plaster
David statues standing there
catatonic we
ape bivalve solemn
quiet as clam beach laying
this is not the way
arbors of post oak
encrowned with willow so green
don’t forget to dance
take the red root there.
wholly we drink it down, down.
take your medicine.
colonization
is a helluva drug, so
let us all abstain