I am a Ghost Whose tribe has been Slaughtered Our language and way deemed savage. Hatred and anger From a society built on Bloodied lands Stolen from brown Native hands Painful past His-story and her-story Taints future Generations.

My story is breadcrumbs Sprinkled about a rocky trail  Down cliffs Over rivers That rushed, and washed away the bank Born to a mother whose grip was forced  Loose by powder  The same powder that lingers in my veins Laces my bones in a bow Forever tight This small child 

I don’t want to be a clean environment I want to be poisoned  I want to rot For holes tear through my atmosphere  For my woodlands to burn  For my rivers to turn sludge For my creatures to beg a god for the Reason of this ill  My ill is

night blue plastic truck we sing Saturn’s rings to pieces in the  shower I was whole let me tell you of a time I drank the world until I lost hold of the ground until I became a wintered kite with no tether and all the  weather broke us down can’t you

I come from the slaughterhouse. From the boar-tainted blood stained two car garage  where a skinned pig   hangs by bound hooves her squeals still echoing down the valley.  But I wasn’t stained by blood.  My white flesh remained pure  and I built friendships on oaths   written with crow feather quills