They treat us like tombs
eager to be emptied.
What they call artifacts
we called our lungs and heart.
Those things were how
we thrived, and more.
We put our lives
into what they use
for pretty decor.
To them we were no more
than feathers
and a bank to be robbed.
Did they imagine
they could or would belong
whenever they wore
what they stole?
They certainly took
enough of our blood
to keep some
for their own.
They think we live
entirely in their commerce,
their fabricated mythology.
They buy and sell
and take and fake
and slay and rape — still,
we’ve held back some.
It may not prove to be
enough, but it’s something
to build on and we swear
they will get nothing
of our new. We swear
that in their tombs
will be nothing but echoes.
