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Grandmother Owl


Grandmother Owl

 

Anger is here, is a stone in my heart.

Ancestry covered by television, commerce, lives lost in trinkets

must be remembered and must be imagined.

Push the moveable type to the side.

I will roll the runes of our makeshift past

in the erasable dust, stone against stone.

I will crush this forgetfulness awake.

I will make you remember

 

That I am warrior, soft and unyielding

and burning as the Sun.

I am a mother in a son’s body,

my intuition bold which laces language magnetic.

My anger is a feather set within wings

which this Owl punches against darkness in her deliberation.

In her deliberate hunt, she delights in night flying,

intuits movements and refines her path in infrared.

 

Armored cowards have taken the lives of our mothers, sisters, fathers, and sons

with cluster bombs and small pox.  With land mines

they pollute playgrounds.  When the mines explode, taking limbs

and tiny lives, the perpetrators make a sign, sigh, “Ah, well.”

I am ashamed for the color of my skin.

I am ashamed for “my people,”

who live on cheap meat, metal and electricity, too much.  Too much.

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