I tell myself that I will again
call this place “ours”

when we can bury our dead here our way
and be buried here that way in turn

when the blood in the soil
stops weeping from loneliness

when we can plant trees here and feel safe
about our grandchildren living to see them

when those future forests again shrug
at our presence as matter of fact

when the names we give places
hold a music that pulls the land into shape

when we forget how to ghost dance
because it’s become unnecessary

when we forget to dance
for you

when we break the last camera
you’ve smuggled into our last bastions

when we stop you from plucking pointless feathers
from thin air and planting them in your hair

when we open up the shame vault and tell you
no your grandmother likely wasn’t

and if she was
it might have been by force

and ask you if it was by love
why you don’t know her name

when we stop being angry long enough
to pity you

and to laugh more than a little at you
as I realize

that I can call this place “ours”
any time I want

because after all this time
in spite of all that’s happened

it still is
it just is