sometimes i look at history
through a microscope
and i feel so stingingly,
gut-splicingly ashamed
for what happened
for what is happening
for what will happen

it feels like a bullet’s
entered through my belly button—
shrapnel spreading to
the four corners of
my bloodstream:
injustice in my heart
in my toes
slinking from fingertip to fingertip—
like a cancer
like funky smells on a bus
like whites sit up front
like prejudice

Rosa Parks was a
Sitting Bull on that bus—
strong and stubborn—
claiming her right to exist there

that seat was her Black Hills

sometimes i think,

that’s where i come from:

the white man

the wasichus

and i wish that

the Ghost Dance

really had worked
 

but then i remember
that we’re all just
global driftwood,
choosing to separate
from Pangaea
 

i think King Jr. understood that.
 

he had a dream...
and it was the same as Black Elk:
to heal the sacred hoop of humanity—
to coexist in peace
 

because we’re not some
Rubik’s cube that can be
compartmentalized:
blacks here
reds there
and whites
to their own circumference
 

there’s an organic wholeness
to undeveloped territory—
something as raw and natural
as a set of ribs
neighboring some lungs

and integration is more
than toleration with
clenched teeth

it’s about acceptance:
your ribs complement
my lungs.

and it’s okay
that you are ribs.

and it’s okay
that i am lungs.

you know?

i wish i had a dance
to help the world
see that more clearly—
to encourage the path
of integration
to wholeness
to healing
to Pangaea

and it would bring
the world together
like Facebook
like Youtube
like powerful grandmothers

and i would chant
to all of the ribs
and to all of the lungs:
You are valued for you!
and my words would
spread acceptance
like dandelion seeds
to the four quarters of humanity,
sprouting “i love you’s”
wherever they landed

i love you

i love you

i love you

i love you