Flying Native Spirits

Poem Indigenous

Photo by Mariano Baraidi on Unsplash

Being homeless
is nothing new for me.
I have red skin
and long black hair.
I am native to this land
and know what it is to be without.

I sit on a low stone wall
in front of the free library
with friends and acquaintances
who are equally as poor
and dispossessed.

When I am lonely,
I blow a wooden flute
like a bird’s song,
calling the flying spirits
of my ancestors.

I long for my people,
my tribe to be free,
to drink the sacred water,
walk proudly on the Great Plains,
and live where the spirit manifests itself
for all who welcome it.

I hold onto an eagle feather,
a crescent moon,
the whispering wind,
and the map of our nation
in my wounded, bloody hands.