The Weight
What is it with the child abused and grown
What is it with the child abused and grown
that they keep heart and thought 'lone
was it the mother dead or the dead alive
looking backwards at the torture fingers
that held violent sway upon everything
Maybe its everything or maybe
If I hurt my children that way
The way you hurt us
I could see dying that way
I could see living that way
alone in a fifth-wheel trailer in the woods, head
laying back on a blue blanket, head laying back
in heroin and alcohol, and finally the heart stopped,
finally her heart stopped.
My mother's heart stopped, Olympia to the west.
Invisible Olympia of Indian jazz porn junkies,
dying in the woods. Maybe it was just n=1,
I never inquired as to your friends.
I hear I'm resili- I hear
reviled . I'm still here, but I'm not.
The distance between here and there closes,
reviled . I'm still here, but I'm not.
The distance between here and there closes,
the healthy mystic would use this magic to let it go
Its hard to let go of your hands
hold up your hands, let them go
see your fingers? they don't.
I remember crying as a child in fear
everyday that you were alive
I remember crying as a man that you were not
everyday that it occurs to me you were gone
was there something I didn't say
maybe another line of rephrased cliche
like maybe it was better this way
my mother in death healed of all her pain
released from a North America that kills Indigenous
women from the beginning,
like DL's sister CC, remember her,
raped, naked, and dying in a field
off the reservation, all for a night of dancing,
the way the police blamed her
you'd think she flaunted some sacred law
instead of a new pair of boots
criminal boots
because their little white dicks get hard
The worse pain is to write these things
and now part of my pain is swept away
in a world of White Supremacy that says
blood quantum and skin color
as if that's what hit me in the face
it was you, and I got it, I got that same hatred
from the same place, it hit me that way
when part of me believes you would have
anyway because that is what I must be
something small, to be hit,
because you were drinking and some
mad asshole shit on your scene.
Confessions, the light is on,
a confession, you're gone.
Twenty-one years gone and its Saturday
night all over again, a temporal transfer
back to that place, ah how to write a poetry
of intersection in a world of White Supremacy,
an underlying reason why my voice
is already spent.
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kefitzat_Haderech
