Before the Devil Breaks You

In our shrouds, we look up and watch you.

You, milking the cow. You, dreaming in the field. You, who look to the stars and proclaim yourselves. You, who fall in love and marry, who birth and plot and strive. You, who blow yourselves apart with war. You, who mourn your losses and curse those same skies. You, who bury your dead. You, who ask, “Am I enough?” You, who pray to leave a mark. You, so full of life. You, capable of such moments of transcendent beauty that it shifts the atoms of history into an ecstatic sigh. You, who erect the monuments so that you’ll remember, for a time. You, who will also wither and die.

We marvel at your endless capacity to dream and create and, yes, even to love. To keep inventing yourselves. To ignore history’s lessons. To rewrite the story again and again.

The history of the land is a history of blood.

In this history, someone wins and someone loses. There are patriots and enemies. Folk heroes who save the day. Vanquished foes who had it coming.

It’s all in the telling.

The conquered have no voice

Names are erased. The conqueror tells the story. The colonizer writes the history, winning twice: A theft of land. A theft of witness.