We  were all children born of fire or ash;

fire in the eyes, the belly, the groin,

rebuilding itself at each possible slight or passing insult,

fire eating the entrails of the enemy

shaking its head to break their spines,

fires warming us in the marches

across frozen earth and ice water,

fire reborn with the sun.

Ash in the soul that shifts and powders with the wind

stalking weakness,

preying on the spirit though the flesh is willing.

Ash that covers the face

freezing time in one horrified moment

before what was becomes what is

ash that settles deeply in urns

displayed on mantles or in museums.

We were born of the rage our parents carried

like medicine bags

stitched tightly in their hearts.

rage that exploded in secluded couplings

rage disguised as love

raging in the deep, dark night

that held them as tightly

as they held each other.

We were born of fear carried in dominant genes

passed on to each generation.

Fear that named us

labelled and claimed us;

fear that shackled and chained us

each to one another,

fear of anyone not Indian,

fear of each other.

We were born of these things

watching Bear and Deer

dancing together in the old stomp grounds

where trees approved their efforts.

We wore fear like blankets

putting out the fire on our backs

leaving only ashes

to float in the arid winds

We were born, we grew and we die.

These things I know and welcome.

It is good we are recycled

that what we have is given over n inheritance.

Underneath the fear, the fire, the ash,

We dream and pretend the land is ours;

that we are not conquered or dying.

We pretend.  We dream.


Rebecah Hall