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  Darren Anderson
   
     
Laaxts'ap
 
Chinook winds swim
across the surging Skeena,
spawning eggs of digression
in a fertile body of thought.
 
This river of mist shared
itself with the Nisga's
long before the pox blankets
covered the nation's children.
 
Grease trails peter into pine,
stained ochre with oolichan oil,
trampled by a thousand dead
pairs of moccasin feet.
 
Ghosts trudge these paths
with watercolor canoes,
past idyll totems
towards a luaawdi potlatch.
 
Blisterd eyelids yearn
an answer from the elders,
dying for a natural balm
that never came.

 



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