Colonialism (Plastic Shaman)

New poem.

The road 
from my ancestors
to me
is grassy and grown,
as green as it ever was,
still kind to the feet of those
born to it.

I don’t recognize
this toll road you’ve made,
the one
you are calling
“The Way Of The Elders.”  

You read a book
of some half-understood
road maps
and made a turnpike
from it.
You’ve decorated the road 
in trappings you don’t own,
maybe tricking yourself into full belief,
at the least
into believing others
will pay to travel it

and maybe they will
but I’m not one of them. 

Those aren’t paving stones,
those are chunks of asphalt.
Those aren’t standing stones,
those are concrete falsehoods.

I know this weight you sell
and it’s not the solidity
of the spirit
but that of
a plastic shaman’s boot
upon my neck, upon
my ancestors’ necks.

Don’t,
says every gene of theirs
in every cell of mine.
Don’t.
Don’t pretend this is real.
Don’t pretend
that by stepping on me
and by stepping on them
that you are walking
any ancient path

except the one 
that led you to our soil
in the first place.

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