The Weight

 The Weight

What is it with the child abused and grown

that they keep heart and thought 'lone

was it the mother dead or the dead alive

looking backwards at the torture fingers

that held violent sway upon everything

Maybe its everything or maybe

If I hurt my children that way

The way you hurt us

I could see dying that way

I could see living that way

alone in a fifth-wheel trailer in the woods, head

laying back on a blue blanket, head laying back

in heroin and alcohol, and finally the heart stopped,

finally her heart stopped. 

My mother's heart stopped, Olympia to the west.

Invisible Olympia of Indian jazz porn junkies,

dying in the woods. Maybe it was just n=1,

I never inquired as to your friends.

I hear I'm resili-  I hear
reviled . I'm still here, but I'm not.
The distance between here and there closes,

the healthy mystic would use this magic to let it go

Its hard to let go of your hands

hold up your hands, let them go

see your fingers? they don't.

I remember crying as a child in fear

everyday that you were alive

I remember crying as a man that you were not

everyday that it occurs to me you were gone

was there something I didn't say

maybe another line of rephrased cliche 

like maybe it was better this way

my mother in death healed of all her pain

released from a North America that kills Indigenous 

women from the beginning,

like DL's sister CC, remember her,

raped, naked, and dying in a field

off the reservation, all for a night of dancing,

the way the police blamed her

you'd think she flaunted some sacred law

instead of a new pair of boots

criminal boots

because their little white dicks get hard

The worse pain is to write these things

and now part of my pain is swept away

in a world of White Supremacy that says

blood quantum and skin color

as if that's what hit me in the face

it was you, and I got it, I got that same hatred

from the same place, it hit me that way

when part of me believes you would have

anyway because that is what I must be

something small, to be hit,

because you were drinking and some 

mad asshole shit on your scene.

Confessions, the light is on,

a confession, you're gone.

Twenty-one years gone and its Saturday

night all over again, a temporal transfer

back to that place, ah how to write a poetry

of intersection in a world of White Supremacy,

an underlying reason why my voice

is already spent.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kefitzat_Haderech