for Ward Churchill
Frozen in abject terror
Flowing through imbedded roots
Skin curling blackened away
Reveals red raw ruin
Where once was a mask
Never a face
Feel the wind for
The very first time
Then, season the silence
With a sigh
Cut out your own tongue
And hand it to the head of state
On a white napkin
On a china plate
Bow halfway with feigned good grace
This has explained such gifts
As a voice are a waste
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