Living the Dream

Louis went to Residential School in Desmarais.
Boy’s beds lined up against the frost covered wall.
Sometimes boys cried. He heard them, stuff the bedding
into their mouths and take big breathes of air.
That’s all. Big breathes of air and a silent moan. Oh, yes,
there were sighs that you could not scrape off the walls
come spring, or wash off the sheets with lye.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

Little rectangle windows, etched with cold,
could be scraped with a fingernail,
like notes to God, because he figured
God could read backwards and B’s
could be D’s without the crack of a ruler
and the slate is wiped clean
with a bright winter’s sun.

“Pray for us sinners!”

Louis knew sins by the bruises
on the palm of his hand, and the backs
of his legs and the stripes on his back.
Who else would have told him praying in Cree
was evil? He made the tongue
move these words. Not babble
rolled easily from his pursed lips.

“Wekâwimisk ayamihestamâwinân,
piyâstâhuyâk, anotch mina wi nipiyâki. Pitane ekusi ikkik.”

He gets things mixed up, even yet,
forgetting that he’s not the only one
labeled as sinner. The fruit of his vine
dribbles down the front of his shirt
falling onto the earth that will suck him dry
and empty as the prayer that folds
in English across his breath Sometimes
The Father is a Cree Chief. Sometimes
Mary is his mother, Bertha. Sometimes
he cries in Cree.

Kit’atamiskâtin Marie, siyâkaskineskâkuyan Manito o sâkihituwin, kitehîk ayâw Kise-Manito. Ispitchi kakkiyaw iskwewok kiya ayiwâk kit’iteyittâkusin ayiwâk mina iteyittâkusin Jesus ka ki kikiskawat.
Kitchitwa Marie Kise-Manito Wekâwimisk ayamihestamâwinân, piyâstâhuyâk, anotch mina wi nipiyâki. Pitane ekusi ikkik.
Amen

Hail Mary, full of grace.
Our Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.

Tags: Poems //