— for the protectors at Standing Rock
This is a story of you
as mad as spirit locked away
in a stale church for centuries,
itching and swelling to break down
your sanctuary prison,
with beautiful open hands
and gray stone in your eyes,
standing up to smoke and wind
and flame not far behind,
dancing among threshers
mowing down fields of grain,
daring scythes to take you,
mocking approaching reapers.
This is a story of you
responding: turning poison flood
into wine, turning heads
away from murder toward
birth and bloom.
This is a story of you
removing: shifting brick
from wall to path and then
following that path to a place
without walls.
This is a story of you
and your beautiful open hands
and stone eyes, your dance
against death, your laughter,
your breakout, your miracle —
you.
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