for Ward Churchill
Frozen in abject terror
Flowing through
Imbedded roots with
Skin curling blackened
Away revealing red raw
Ruin where once was
A mask and never a face
Feel the wind for
The very first time
Then season the silence
With a sigh and cut
Out your own tongue
Hand it to the head of state
On a white napkin
Upon a china plate
Bow halfway with
Feigned good grace
This has explained
Such gifts as a voice
Are a waste
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