My Arrows Are Made of Ink and the Predators Have Changed.

We are hunted today, we women of the land,
and they dispose of us off the beaten path like road kill,
some momentary speck of dust blowing in the wind now
joined with the ancient and wise mother, eternal womb of protection.
It ain’t over for us, sisters. We live in the soil, in the permafrost, in the drizzle of the sky.

We take the hands of the wounded and
lead them along the bloody red road,
the land of the colonized, the brain washed,
or assimilated,
as they would call it.
I call it wrong and say follow me to the light as I
leave this bad neighborhood behind
-clans turned gangs-

if ever there was a difference.
Perhaps it is only
the language that changed.

Let’s sing a different song of reckoning,
let’s sing the song that bubbles up like sweet air,
and sacred breath. Let’s take a deep breath and walk
towards the light, for it isn’t only on the other side it shines.
It all depends on how you look at it,
so get new eyes. Let’s forgive
ourselves everything
and wake up to the day
my father Saavla sang about:

A gha gha gha ghaalek! he sang,
let me walk to the beach
with absolutely no hood on
joy joy joy
the sun is shining
joy joy joy.

Let’s go back to our own joy,
a gha gha gha ghaalek…

by Susie Silook