Poem for Three Brothers/Others

My mind is busy when you enter, the first one who comes today
The space where I work full of books and writings, all
Testaments to my people, their pictures covering my desk.
Your question is innocent, yet opens wounds again
You did not know, and so I answer in truth:
"When you ask 'What part Indian are you?' it reminds
Me of the way this question was used to separate my people
From yours, defining lands and breaking treaties."
Yet you persist, and still you ask; the wound becomes
A chasm of blood, driven into me like a knife
Ten thousands generations deep.
You say you know my city, but you do not.
All you want is for me to endorse your cause, but
No cause will ever heal the war between us, one
That wages on because of questions like this, when
Our people become numbers instead of flesh
And these answers never satisfy your need to
Go home justified before your Maker.
The violence is done, you shake my hand and leave
As I return to the space and weep, nothing to cling to
But bitter tears that have become my companions
Throughout this violent life of mine.
I wail as the chants of my people play on my tinny
Laptop speakers, their voices proud as the drums beat
And the bells ring, and I hear pride instead of the
Desperation of prayers against a line of riot shields.

My heart is heavy when I hear the news of the loss -
Three lives and another taken, when you decided'
To take your stick of thunder and turn it on the pale faces,
Haastį' innocent, all of them, now dead as I see the
Yellow tape blocking the streets near where I work, the
Neighborhood that I call my home. I know in my heart of tears
Why you did it: you could not bear the hatred you endured;
Your black skin was less than human, it was stripped of the
Beauty endowed as the Negus from Golden lands far away.
You chose the broken ways, you shouted "God is Great!" more
To sow seeds of fear into our hearts, but clear sight can tell
That you do not know the Creator of all things, you
Worship dozens of gods made in your image, clouded
Like a smoking mirror from the poison in your heart.
And yet I lift my prayers for you, asking for mercy
Upon you and your family, your people who now suffer
From those who can't see beyond the hatred and fear.
My city now bleeds and bears the wound of this act
The sticks of thunder now levied against you
And the threat of more broken ways should they
Choose to take your life for what you've done.
The One Who Sets Free shows me what love
Looks like: that he would ask the Father to offer
His mercy upon those who drove the nails into
His very hands as he bled and died, alone,
Abandoned by all who loved him. May we hope
For resurrection amidst so much loss.

I hear your voice through a teacher of the laws, those
That are used to place more people behind bars than any
Other nation, and you say that you heard the anger
Of a people, Haastį' Łiga who tell you that 'Allah is not God,'
And this was an act of terror and not a crime of hate.
My heart falls because you choose to listen to men like this.
I am not surprised that the teachers of the law are blinded by
Their fears, telling the same lie that led us to cross the waters
And walk the sands to free a people from a Bad Ruler, yet
inaugurate a season of destruction and blood. The
War on Terror is one for which we gladly lay down our
Precious lives, yet the price is the peace and hope of
Our freedom, and the freedom of innocents across far waters.
Do you listen to these stories? Do you take them as truth?
The truth is for me not a story but a Human One, the
Very Creator who Sets Us Free. His rule is a Way for all
To walk, the least and the greatest, and his weapons are
The ways of peace, the waters of justice, the freedom to
Look into the face of Death and gladly walk onward.
Those who follow this One must forsake the false Dream
This nation dangles before us. We do not cling to our things
And instead give it all away. We have died in untold numbers
From Antioch to Wounded Knee, from Carthage to Soweto.
His promise is a peace that cannot be broken, a Treaty that
Is sown into the hearts of faith, and written in the language
Of love, a language that he teaches us to speak
Not in words, not in belief, not in ideas written down
But lived as we walk with our neighbors, those in our
Village and all villages across the earth.
It is a language that I speak when I see you and choose
Not to hate, or resent, or even argue against.
I must love you, and let the One Who Sets Free
Turn you from the Other into my Brother.

Another time, after Creator Sets Free had finished praying, one of his followers said to him, "Wisdomkeeper, teach us how to pray in the same way He Shows Goodwill taught his followers. Creator Sets Free smiled and said to them, "When you send your voice to the Great Spirit, this is how you should pray."

"O Great Father, the one who lives above us all, your name is sacred and holy. Bring your Good Road to us, where the beauty of your ways in the world above is reflected in the earth below. Provide for us day-by-day the elk, the buffalo, and the salmon; the corn, the squash, and the wild rice; all the good things we need every day to feed our families. Release us from the things we have done wrong in the same way we release others from the things done wrong to us, and guide us away from the things that would tempt us to stray from your Good Road.

-Luke 11:1-4, First Nations Version.