This highway, this road, that leads to your old home, I remember so well- it surprised me.
I used to sing, Where is my King, long ago before Darkness had found me.
Was it silent in the car, we drove near, we drive far, or did we fill it with many whispers?
I don’t recall, the details, they all, seem so loosely
With silver string, and pretty things, I try so hard to sew them near each other.
But, the needle, weightless, feather it seems, slips between my fingers.
a lucid dream,
I cannot seem to capture.
Upon my walls, pictures of you all, my life and my laughter.
What was I to you, a child, a mother, a sister.
Those best describe the roles, the lies, the tender, the longing, the gifted.
It was not all as it seemed-
And, not nearly what we planned, while playing sticks in the sand,
but we lived the dream. Even better than many.
Within these new walls,
and public washroom stalls-
and discerning rivers,
and, glacial lakes- the white-natives call it.
what they would not, could not name:
the ice in their stares, cold chilling, the cod they were selling.
Because, that would be impolite, to draw attention to the light-
the book of knowledge: the false truths, they were believing
the pictures on the screens,
reflecting a blue-green in their family and dining TV rooms,
made false images of us all, the great, the weak, the small- and of me and all I belonged to.