Body As A Burial

My body is an ancient burial ground

It gets desecrated by someone else’s

idea of progress.

When you enter me, you stir the dead,

the anger of a century in red

pours out in tainted rivers,

the Red River,

where the missing ones were buried,

floods over and curses any attempt

I might make to love you.

Your heart gets haunted

by something unnamed,

something buried

too deep to be translated.

Your hands are the only evidence

that I exist beyond this.

You frack me without a thought

for what you take,

but what hurts most

is what you leave behind,

was once so sacred.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Anishinaabe, Canada, creative, Cree, Displacement, Earth, Environment, Feminist, First Nations, Genocide, Human Rights, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, introspective, Longing, Loss, Oil Fields, Ojibwe, Pain, Past, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Pollution, Pride, Prostitution, Rape, Self, Sex, Sexuality, Silence, Sorrow, Spirit, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

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