Fighting frontline fatigue is something you will never
see in front of me is just a hot cup of tea to go, if
you please, no milk or cream just sugar, or black,
hoping it’ll smack me out of this lucid nightmare
I’m caught in
excuse me I need to sleep in a trance so deep in
terror I dream that the world around me melts polar
bear pelts and head dressess on display
PTSD as a plane flys by and people panic yet the
slogan is “don’t panic we got bannock”
I’ve yet to see bannock everyday at the community
up north
but we pray for a safe return, and we hope for a safe
journey home, bannock or not, this is a frontline
I’m still shot sliently screwed by the aftermath of
genocide my family just barely survived and struggles
with here and today
you’re not Indian because you didn’t have things,
structures, languages removed from you violently
oppressing you quietly and to us this savage
speaks loudly
media, newspapers, digital prints, you read it everyday
about the terrorists amerikkkans are bombing
and the terrorists blocking pipelines and crippling
klanata’s so-called economy
I’ll just change some names around and pretend to
enjoy writing this thank you when the 1% of white
wealthy people and anyone with excess amounts of
money guilting us making us forcing us to worship
the ground you walk on is pathetic but thank you
for the money
be polite and write this letter with conviction just
know these are your lands and not the white mans
I said to a dear friend over social media, “soon I’ll
mail you a file in a birthday cake.” “a file?” She said
Yes, I said, “a file to saw down the prison which
captures us all and be free, running back to the
Yintah, familiar, comfortable, known”
returning home is where the heart beats though my
soul lives up north and my spirit is free to wander,
a spiritual saunter through the valley of death this
isn’t my last breath, just be known I’m here to stay
to say corruption is not the Indian way…
poem: Henry Mellstrom,
photo: “leaving klanata” by Kevin Henry Photography
