365 Poems – 141 Home Rough First Draft

For a while, I let what little
outside I have, come in.

The smell of bagels, sweating
bananas, and collected
body odour of every
human being, breathing
and dying in New York City.

Opening my veins is easier
than I thought it would be.

My mother, if she were here,
would scream stop!
And maybe I would.

But I’ve betrayed my ancestors.
I’ve become lost in life,
without the drive
to find my way back home.

I feel as if I’m between
wakefulness and dreaming.
The knife has translated
much more than emptiness.

I don’t know if I ought to
congratulate myself, on
remembering my childhood
nickname, the one I left behind,
with unfinished bead work
and long plaits.

I remember making my
first peace pipe. I used
soft wood –maple.
We passed it sunwise

There is fluid in all
the wrong places, and
my body is passed damaged now
– it is ruined.

But I hear the drum beat rapidly.
They’re calling me back.
I go, gratefully and with swiftness.

I smell pine. I’m not afraid
I touch the earth. I’m home.