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I Am My Own Route

Updated on December 8, 2012

I remember who lived here

who shared the mountains and

green pills, snow drifts during winter.

Natives who built fire now kindle

slot machines on reservation, down

loading quick heliotropes on lunar eclipse.

Stamp trails and wind up carbon

path, in a place full of cool

rain falls where no clouds overhang

and spies fill the skies.

Free of spores and fibber tire ash,

clean air nipping my lungs

resurrected from crowding trees and

acres of plodding.

Before garbage bags and trash bins.

Before division of plot with square feet

and labels were called appraisals, and lots

yielded fruits of laboring love,

Even here, beer cans french kiss

pine needles in frozen times, their

plumage on roof tops, on

bush floors, a water bottle singing

a dirge, buried under years of

fangled moss and earthy contra

band of cult therapy.

They have been hollowed out,

unearthed sites, where black ravens

blot the sky with spread wings

as they cackle down and bones

are exposed where they lie rest.

They cry up to me like canaries

of sick flacon, each and every one

of them, wanting a proper burial place,

warning, one will be taken and

the other left.


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    • katoly profile image

      katoly 5 years ago


      this is a great writing ..

      really like it

    • bravewarrior profile image

      Shauna L Bowling 5 years ago from Central Florida

      As part Cherokee, I feel for the Natives of this land we call America. Your recount of the spirit and the effect white man has had on the bearers of our land is very sad. I am so sorry for what history has brought upon the true owners of this vast land. It must make your heart bleed to see what has become of the land that was taken from you.

    • Gypsy Rose Lee profile image

      Gypsy Rose Lee 5 years ago from Riga, Latvia

      Voted up. Reminded me of the sad fate of Indians and how their land as taken, not to mention polluted.

    • always exploring profile image

      Ruby Jean Richert 5 years ago from Southern Illinois

      The Indian must long for the fertile hunting of days past. Beautiful!!!