Nativity

The theorem of confinement
sits on the brow of each native,
on the wings of creatures
painting cirrus across heaven.
The halo of the native is the curse
of the fallen saint. There are no gods
for scavengers who raid the
earth, for in sin they must
rest: the cauldron of despair

The natives embark on
a journey befouled
by an invisible rod,
their decampment marred by
limestone pebbles and sulfur.
Their feet carry the sounds
of migrants mauled by
rough times

Their gazes avert to an
empty dream
as their eyes congeal the sorrows
of mass murder.
Hardened souls,
the neologists had thought
about them
for the native sees nothing

They cannot see themselves,
they are not allowed to,
their lives elude transparency.
Blinded by the beam of history
shining upon their land,
a land without soil, bearings
not to be found.
The natives are lost in time.

The lines of their palms are
the (new) fixation like
brick walls cascading,
a mirror without reflections.
Their wrinkled skin stretch to
fit rows of expressions of
the Ashanti, Apache, Yoruba,
Mandingo, Kalinago, Ibo, Cherokee,
Blackfoot, Taino, Cheyenne, Inuit,
Creole, Métis...

They see the hopes of their ancestors
betrayed
they must not remember.
The songs are dying, slowly
they will have no voice to sing praises
the beating sun recalls their destiny,
the cages of their minds

Ask the natives,
their lives are open like
fresh wound
deep with goo to fester
and spread like wildfire
but the cards show they
must live to conquer...
the cards show, they must live