and so these are words

the shadows in mouths

marking blackness

between the spaces of teeth
bold and raw barnacles sticking to gums

that make the Canadian psyche shutter

since truth is to be hidden behind the lips

and across this mosaic land a crop of lies is what

Canada has given to the world 
I am the mixed blood of contempt

but my mother’s people put me on mountains

so that my own salvation dripped

from the sweat and tears I offered as prayer

to build a future for my grandchildren
no vision was offered

but the words of my ancestors tore open

from my throat to fall onto paper to write poetry

to use the weapon of the white man

because all they believe in is the ink that splatters on wood
I am nothing

I have nothing

but the words and images of volcanic poetry

will you point a gun at me for this?