Weaving Lessons (on Genocide)

1.   prepare the reeds
    work light with swift fingers
    gather stories with each thread
    weave through night

    carry what you can
         food - tools - babies
    don’t spill a drop
    when it’s time to run

               here they come  
               here they come

    wait for clever winds
    to carry your smoke signals
    subvert and deflect
    bide more time

    sharpen flints with your senses
    cover your tracks
    disappear with the sun
    prepare for blood

              they’re here
              they’re here

2.   I smell your reeds burning
    as they cloak you with blankets
    gifted with smallpox
    to blister your skin

    I hear red cliffs wailing
    a ration-station’s offering
    arsenic-laced flour
    to convulse your gut

    I cry you a flood
    as they boil your tea
    from strychnine-waterholes
    to choke your breath

             I am falling  
             I am falling

    in fields of grief
    I trip on your bones
    trace your flesh
    catch your last breath

    I search for your baskets
    to carry your hearts
    gather what’s left
    before they burn

3.   blood from my grandmother’s womb
    feeds my babies
    they kick to survival songs
    before they swallow the air

            rise up
            rise up

    burn the old blankets
    the old-ration-stations
    track down the waterholes
    cleanse them with your dreams

    prepare new reeds
    let your ancestors guide
    weave them their story
    with poetry and love

    weave them strong to carry
    the weight of our truth
    then thread them with hope
    to lighten your load

            it’s time
            it’s time.