Four Poems

Because, colonialism

My heart, exhausted
swells with tearful warmth
when you speak

The way your words remind me
what it is to be loved
to be whole

Worn thin from all the times between
these surges of life
and so weary

Reminded now of wholeness
but afraid, still, to trust
to step into my place

I know it waits before me
I know the path is seeded
in every one of my names

You have always seen it
as you have always seen me
behind my fear

You tell me I belong
and despite my damaged fortress
I believe you

Though most of me still can’t
The fright of sensing purpose
when you believe yourself as nothing

“That’s because, colonialism”
you told me
and I knew it

but the distance between knowing and feeling
remains in the way
(like a tiny stone of concentrated heartache)

The distance between
my sense and the world
is vast:

what we carry, what we come from
what we know to be true
is always under attack

Self love’s become so small
and I keep forgetting
how to grow it

---

Survivor’s guilt

How to navigate survivor’s guilt
in a world built on destroying you
while the crosshairs remain fixed
on all that is
feminine
sovereign
Indigenous
nurturing of life

How to extend past the insecurity
they planted deep within you
by violent means
for a lifetime
and 500 years

My constant inner dialogue

How to claim our space
take up our sacred purpose
give life/create/build/protect/pass on
when all we have survived
and endure
says
we do not deserve to be here
we are meant to be dead
we will always receive pain in place of love

All the places we have cached with seeds of precious life
they will gladly suck dry
until barren
until nothing is left but the anguish
of trying

As if we are     only     ever      always
for the taking

My ancestors say:
this is ancient misperception
Greed has never been able to comprehend wealth

The ones you massacred
enslaved
betrayed
they live within            surround me
speak in my ear

They look at you and laugh
I look at them and grow strong

Survivor’s guilt is the lie
you tried to stick on me
the slow pitiful death
that exists only if I fear it

Guilt, the great imposter –
we are experts at survival

My ancestors say:
We have always been here

My job is to house the always
for a while
My job is to do this
despite you

---

Stone whisperer

You asked me to be patient
and even though remaining here is pain
I agreed to
I know what you’ve been through
I know why stone walls form around Indigenous men’s hearts
I know the ways they harden you
how hard it is to be confined
unable to admit
the insecurity
the hopes and fears and failures
of your heart

I’ve felt you reach out to hold me
despite them, surprising yourself
I felt you rest
long and deeply
in the island safety of my breast

I felt you rest
I felt you rest
transcending words and inhibitions
I felt you reach out and rest
long and deeply
in the safety of my breast

I flooded you with love
in all directions of time
I wanted you to bathe in peace
and remember, for once
how to share breath

I hoped it would show you
how to see with your heart
and how to reach me
I hoped it would remind you of eternity

Your mouth may be forever empty of words
but I know you can feel me
Even stones transmit warmth

Your barricade stands regal
strong and handsome smooth
and terribly hard
and it might always defeat me
God knows stone walls always do

Even if you never let yourself
love me
even though you already do
before and after all of this
you know
all I ever wanted
is for us to be free

---

Offering

I have always been ocean
between great distant islands
holding them in closely wrapped depths
a wide expanse of stories without ends
Sometimes water, sometimes sea ice
always flowing
Restless
Blessed            and stretched
and often torn
Sometimes too full with all the grief
of holding
all of this terrible complexity
all of these beloved island anchors
that anchor me                        and give ground
knowing that ground has always escaped me
and all I really know is how to drift

A solitary, lonely gift
to sense from silent spaces
buried needs we can never admit
So I spend this life
searching
searching
pulled by the moon

As I settle to my bottom I can see it
beyond the devastation and losses, this perpetual state
faint trace of inertia, particles of lifetimes forgotten
spanning across unfathomable distance
like sun warmth on your face in the pit of winter
a mother’s caress long after she has passed on

Perhaps my deepest urge
for uninhibited love
for children to raise in our richness, close to the earth
to give them my body and my life
until there is nothing left to give
and we are all overflowing
Perhaps these are seeds that will blossom in them
the ones yet to come
the ones we must deliver safely
across

Perhaps my spirit is dreaming
and my heart is in prayer

My hands will keep building
my mind will keep working
my life will keep searching
newfound ways to bring you through

Maybe I am tobacco
laid on the earth
imbued with ancient prayers
from palms of ancestors

Maybe I am the smoke that rises
with the offering

Maybe these pulls
are the migration paths of caribou
too long unfulfilled
on verge of return
from spirit world to new form

In the afterlife my joy will be
to graze your cheeks with loving warmth
as we beam at you with pride
knowing that at last
our job is done
your time has come
the cycle, now stronger
will continue

---

Siku Allooloo is an Inuit/Taino writer, activist and community builder from Denendeh, Northwest Territories. She was the creative nonfiction winner for Briarpatch Magazine‘s Writing in the Margins contest, and her other writing has been published in the Malahat Review, the Guardian, and NationsRising, among others.