On the Edge

On The Edge He lays flat on the floor on the edge of his mind's cliff. Taking notes, he wonders “Is this life worth living?” He tries to remember, tries to grasp onto happier times. Flickers of light flutter beyond his reach. They tease and torture him. Figments wrapped in glittering paper. History books filled with white heroic faces. His brown skin people depicted as savages on those pages! He remembers the gold stars on school papers. He remembers the smell of Elmer’s glue. Later he’ll brown paper bag inhale those vapours. His way of trying to escape promises and temptation, the tearing away of his foundation. There remains bits of himself, imbedded in all that frustration. All things geometrically angled away from him, forced him to lose himself in their sin. To survive he had let them reshape him like tin. Red man, tin man, not knowing where to begin. No one was present to help him, no friends or Kin. The tethers to his ancestors, strong although they’re gossamer thin. He feels the coolness of the terracotta tile pressing against his forehead. Soothing him, studying him, absorbing his fever. Voices promising relief, whispering to him, "Let your blood accentuate my redness, I will protect your bones.” Light flows through stained glass. Christ's brilliant blue eyes pierce his sadness. Reassuring him, There will be more days, brighter days. “I am the way” Warmth not clay, Sadness shall be left to yesterday, the floor will not be fed today. Instead the floor is washed with his salty tears. The edge vanishes. Was he ever meant to be here? One moment graciously turns to years. He sits in a pew looking up away from himself. It now all seems so clear, He is released from fear. What was taken he can’t find here. So he gets up, walks across the floor, walks out the silent door. Deciding once and for all, he doesn't need or want, this horrid place any more! His heart is healed, God goes where he goes. The seed of suffering they planted, no longer grows. What he remembers sets him free, he will not be lost to conformity! He chooses a life of joy not misery. Those in the church don’t know his history. So how can they teach him who he needs to be? Dedicated to native children abused in church and residential schools. Their culture was systematically stripped away. in some cases much worse things happened behind what should have been hallowed walls. In writing this I questioned if this piece was honoring to Native people. As I thought about this, I realized that this piece speaks to their resilience as a people. Despite what was done to them they have found a way to hold onto their culture, traditions, art and language. We have much that we can learn from them. I pray that healing comes from a place deep within their indomitable spirits. By: Richard J. Lamoureux www.wisedummypoet.com