Justin(e) Norton-Kertson

tw // this poem mentions imperialist genocide against indigenous peoples and compares it to the slaughter of livestock

Mist and fog creep through

conifer-topped peaks,

a patchwork of a dozen shades of green.

​

This has to be what poets mean

When of paradise their mighty pens speak.

​

The jumbled medley of

varied grey clouds

pulsate, pregnant with the source of life.

​

Electric crackles cut like a knife.

The sky is alive, dynamic, and loud.

​

Historical waste leaks

into groundwater

and finds its way into the ocean-bound river,

​

a beautiful low speed courier delivering

Prepackaged radiation burns to livestock

                                                  set for the slaughter

just a few hours north

from the place

where they drowned an indigenous culture

​

like a ravenous, white, imperialist vulture,

for the genocide-powered hydroelectric rat race.

​

Oh don’t worry, their

memory lives on. We gave

their names to our bridges and counties to celebrate

​

their memory, and the bounty of our violent fate

that we built on their freshly manicured lawn-covered graves.