for S’ólh Téméxw (the traditional territories of the Stó:lo-)

out in the valley

plump drupelets fall into the thicket

the butterflies are always drunk.

disturbed plots beneath the powerlines

become breeding grounds for

noxious children.

common broom supplants the old gods

dragging golden knuckles across

the flat-lying meadow.

drones round here drive pimped trucks

furnishing the colony with blue-stained

beetle kill.

the mussels are all sedentary these days

no oolichan left to grease

the ancient gears.

wapato once grew in abundance here but

who gives a f*** about swamp potatoes

with these supersized fries.

they say the one who made this place

his people, his sky-born wife

were created right over there.

on that hill with the fancy properties

with the aggregate potential

of everything.