Oneida School­boys

Prairie Fire - - GERALD ARTHUR MOORE -

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

her hand.

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.

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