Poetry for my Grandmothers

Pardon Me

by Lynne Colombe

Could I be pardoned by your perceptions

pushed upon the People

that don’t belong to me?

Could you discover

with a humanitarian lens

the hundreds of years

of memory

of my-story

not history

that keeps your world

from acknowledging mine?

My experience inside

the tipistola door

was square;

floor littered

with a white paper doll

dressed in a brown bag

Indian dress

cut out of

my grandmother’s memory.

Your blood

lacks the atoms

of indigenous trauma;

wherein a place

in your world

for me

is as a

discarded thought

in your grandfather’s history.

Comments

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