Even our pencil crayons are racist;
the pink labelled Flesh
the brown crimson— Indian Red.
Bricks are made from clay, on sight,
where the Great Mother patted
Above broken treaty hectares,
the whir of overhead projectors—
we make shadow wolves and hawks
against the drop down screens;
the whir like a distant waterfall.
In that tin box we hear ancestors
singing from eternity.
All the teachers are white;
our classes have labels; “Basic” or “General,”
the Flesh coloured kids take “Advanced” courses.
We never dance, we never drum,
but we roll our own tightly, and come undone.