THURSDAY: Tar Sands, Pipeline


Copyright is held by the author.

You lay the body earth out
on a map
like an anaesthetized patient
all marked up for surgery —
dotted lines from here to here,
Athabasca to Pacific
criss-crossing colours
like flight routes,
Bisecting Turtle Island
as if, as if — no way, no way —
the patient
is oblivious, brain dead,
good only for her organs.
If that.

But if there is one adjective
that transforms
the world
of impossible, hopeless
and too late
to stop, to save, to love, to
to heal
our beloved loving mother,
the word the women chorus together
is “almost.”

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