The totem poles are stacked against the house for firewood,
the sweet grass trashed and kicked to the curb
(in a blue bag for recycling)
And my braids let loose and uncoiled, bobbed
Like the picture on page seven from Teen magazine.
I sleep on a mattress in an air-conditioned room.
Because good intentions know better
What I really need
And what I would like
And how to save me
From my strange, uncivilized dreams
Of circle dances and medicine men.
5 comments:
Totems and uncivilized dreams. Thanks for making me ponder.
How much nighttime do you get this part of the year?
ahhh, seven hours or so. we're not too far north here.
i'm too cryptic, i know.
thinking about modern day colonizations, mostly my own.
I love this poem...have you published any?
naw, ann,
i feel all thumbs with poetry. i'm just kicking around some words because the scarcity of explanation suits my need sometimes. but thanks. you made me feel brave.
Well done...
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