the haunting

March 20, 2009 at 4:44 am (Uncategorized)

the haunting

wasn’t it 1492 when Columbus sailed the azure ocean?

salty water lapping shores separating neighbors

come into our house- there is no honor in dispelling a neighbor

but unruly neighbors are a curse and bad religion is a plague

came the call from every corner with mangled crosses and dubious preachers

came, you came to our land . . . our lives . . . our homes

 

“virgin land,” mother earth milk & honey flowing from her breast- you saw fences

“virgin trees,” Sequoia mammoths decorating a vast green park-

         you saw timber

“virgin nations,” going . . . gone- left from a greater civilization-

         but you did not see me

land . . . trees . . . “ours” you say- and the nations? just a blight on

         your conscience

cut the land, cut the trees, cut the nations . . .

this is the clarion Christian call

rape the land, rape the trees, rape the nations . . .

ignore my blood and tears when you pray

 

I am a red Indian, a raped virgin- you make me a “noble whore”

thrown into a dark corner with the trees, and the land, and the

         “lost” civilizations

my spiritual reservations are the places you relegate to me

compartments fit for non-human species-churches made from

         acreage and board feet

 

good Indian- come to church, makum’ god happy

good Indian get job, makum’ government hapy

good Indian keep quiet . . . subdued . . . silent

quietly turn your vile abuse, your bitter loss onto yourself and other

         bad Indians

then . . . you makum’ everyone of us Americans very happy

‘cause we got your land

         and we got your trees

                  and never forget . . . never, ever forget- that we got god-

         so we got your souls!

where do the souls of dead Indians go?

where does one go after rape and torture, robbery and slavery,

         disease and genocide?

perhaps we join the land and the trees

lingering with the spirit of Jesus on earth to curse savage Christian

         civilizations

we die early and we die often . . . but we die slow

and, we die knowing a secret that you don’t even care to know

 

that your land will not rest

and your trees will make only crooked crosses

and your children will breathe their last breaths in despair

. . . groping for an identity that you could not steal for them

     . . . grasping for an honor that always alluded them

         . . . clinching for a God . . . and land . . . and trees . . . and

nations that were never theirs

and herein is the lesson . . . gifts can’t be stolen

and love takes flight where control makes its nest

and Jesus? O, Jesus . . .

You crucify Him anew with every sacrifice that we make to

accommodate you

wasn’t it 1491 when there was no haunting?

 

                                                                                 Randy Woodley