Round river boulder of the past
Heavy gray granite of history
I claw at you, fingernails
Scrabbling for purchase, shoulder
Straining to keep you encircled
In my grasp, palms pressing
Rugosities friction heaving the weight
Past my knees.
Why lift this heavy stone?
This smooth stone of history best
Perhaps to let it lie forgotten in the willows
By the dark river
I lift it because it is the stone
Of my heart, unfading realization
Wordless in the pit of my stomach
Sense of belonging to a wronged people
Refusal to take the thin soup
And forget.
I lift the stone because to let it lie
Forgotten in the willows
Is to lose my own life, to be lost
Forever to my people, to forget
Is to forsake the solemn dignity
Of a stolen past.
I lift the stone because of the anger
In my heart, rage in my head and heart
Driving me relentless to clear away
Spoils of burned houses, abandoned
False dreams like old cars on the side
Of a scabland road, twisted roots of lies,
Rocks of hate clogging the life-springs of my people.
My people! Atavistic phrase, worrying
Politicians and historians, raising visions
Of new nations perpetuating old wrongs
But hot-headed I proclaim that there was
Nothing but the general human condition
To be ashamed of in our stolen past
Much to love, much to mourn
And the time when the big city taxi driver
Threw the Nova Scotia boatbuilder out of the cab
When, accustomed to the open air,
The git spat his chaw full on the
San Francisco isinglass window
And his kids with their mismatched shoes
To walk across foggy hills.
Let sadness follow upon sadness,
Song follow on song, stone rest upon stone.
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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