Smashed into the corner of a glued sawdust bookcase
next to incense charcoal
are Sweet Grass Braids
for $3.50 with a blue label saying “Native Scents” & a computer code
I can’t catch my breath
All night I’m angry as I dream of sell eucharists on street corners
This sacred gift is never to be sold
but hippies don’t care as they give themselves names for the same old
rip off of everybody to get some culture just like their parents
Posters of Chinese workers, clothes from India & coffee from Brazil
don’t make you one with the people
Still trying to buy your way to innocence & more
Grow your snarly hair into fake dreads
We don’t want you anymore than we wanted your grandparents & their mission schools
Leave us alone     Find your culture & your spirituality in our mutual history
Stop selling out ours
Cut your knotty hair off     Leave Rasta to Rasta
Leave the drum & Sweat Lodge & Sundance to those whose heart beats it
This roar of old sorrow whirls hot from my shoulders as I wash the cooking pots of the dead
We aren’t here to entertain you excuse you explain reality to you
enter your names in our lives or soothe you
Exploitation has many servants
Pick up your own socks
Live in this world your ancestors made until you feel it
until we change it