The Museum Lied to You about the Bear River Massacre, or, Sensing Great Injustice When Reflecting on Class Field Trips
Time lost
recovering the remains
which have become
many eyes, darting away so easily —
so bitterly.
They do not want
to dethrone themselves —
their ancestor’s bones;
this land, now ours, holds their rot.
Hardest pill to swallow
gets stuck; their throats
regurgitate
museum pamphlets —
the false gospel,
the unheard obituary.
Who cares to listen: the guide blurts out
“We did this!” “We won the battle!”
Virgins pillaged; Newe slaughtered.
The arms of capital
dense enough —
inhumane rupturing tumor;
late-stage self-collapse.
Heroes(parasites) feasting on hefty meals,
cornucopias — plastic hats atop settlers(dunces):
Indian summer’s beautiful mirage.
Truth reeks of massacre — stained with
unbridled Manifest Destiny: history book silence.
White skin washes hands;
blood flows downstream, axes bashed every child;
their heads concave riverbeds now empty.
Kiss it through movie screens,
hide when the victims see.
Motherland is swollen, maggot-ridden,
beyond moral redemption.
Picking pores, letting them heal —
blotches the promiscuous humming evil
leaking from her. Children pop out,
ready for mother to fall apart.
