I saw
through the tears
of that traitor,
fear
and the eye of a storm.
Neither a lover
nor hater
just anarchy
in human form.
He rose
like smoke
from a feather.
Singed
by the burning sweetgrass.
Slenderly
snaking together,
the shamans
of plastic
and glass.
Caught feeding
in powerful places
and playing
political games
in service to those
who've displaced us,
and given us
our English names.
And the pale ones
hoisted him
higher,
than his totem
would ever dare.
Precisely
their kind of liar:
nobility
bought with long hair.
And somewhere
our Grandfather's
weeping
but not for the teachings
forgot,
he cries
for the souls
of the sleeping,
and those who are woke
but speak not.
So I will pray
to the spirit,
and hang your sage
in the sun,
then bang so hard
you shall hear it:
this willful
drum circle
of one.
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