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.
