Blessed Blend

We come out balls and lash.

We come out apologizing for our brashness.

My grandmother’s grandmother’s village was burned

and the babies were given ‘holy names’.

Her father, her mother, mystery knows what their names were

and what they called their beautiful brown smiling babe.

She married a Blackfoot named Buck

somehow managing to keep the faith alive-

not the thought she was raised to burn in hell-

the Great Mystery who knows her,

her parents’ spirits who still know her

and see her from afar.

Now she’s watching over us,

smiling at my anger and saying,

You don’t need to be angry, my son,

but, with her mischievous smile, I’m proud of you for your anger.

Buck, he’s running wild and she’s happy to have her husband near.

Their dear son went so soon and they hold the wreath,

the dreamcatcher above their granddaughter’s sleeping,

dreaming head, the medicine woman I call my grandma,

she the one, the remnant of holy tradition carrying on.

You won’t make us forget who we are.

You won’t make us forget where we belong.

You can burn the parents alive and adopt their crying children,

but you’ll never make me forget my grandmother,

my grandmother’s grandmothers and grandfathers.

We come from lands green and we come from lands red

and I’ll spill this blood into the earth; no taking away

my children’s dreams.

This is what I was taught. This is what I am feeling.

I come from a family you will not find kneeling.