Matt Caliri Poet Free verse

My Name Is Wind-River

I sit in a big strange box with strange people,
With only a window to the world I know.
Hearing a name that is not mine:
“Wind, Wind, Wind…”
“Slow learner,” I hear the teachers whisper.
Bring me back to the rocks of my father’s sweat lodge,
I shall count them faster than these silly shapes on this paper!
“Wind, Wind, Wind…”
I don’t respond.
My classmates laugh when I say there are 13 months, 
But when I start to describe over 30 different types of birds	
They stop laughing and leave me alone. Alone.
Where I already am all the time. 
Surrounded by white-washed walls and American values.
“Wind, Wind, Wind…”
They would say now, put down the scissors.
Curled lockets of my black hair cascade down around my feet.
You’re making a mess, they’d say. 
But aren’t you happy now?
My hair is cut.
My culture shed.
My name is Wind, which is a lie and your idea.
And I’m a “slow learner,” which is a lie and your idea.

As my father told me, when they look at you
They mistake a basket of gifts for an empty glass.

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