Legend of the White Man:

The Land of the People Who Are Forgotten is 

Shrinking.

I remember 

when I used to trace our borders with my fingertips,

—shrinking.

My teachers called me “cartographer.” They’d smile

when I used to trace our borders with my fingertips,

I “needed direction,” so they gave me a compass.

My teachers called me cartographer. They’d smile.

My fingers searched for the familiar,  

I needed direction, so they gave me a map

of my land: bent borders, moved mountains, roads rerouted—home is unrecognizable. Still,

my fingers search for—The Familiar 

Loss

Of My Land. Bent borders; moved mountains; roads rerouted; home is unrecognizable, still.

It pains me to remember

loss.

I learned—

—it pains me to remember:

Permanence is the White Man’s Privilege. 

I learned:

The Land of the People Who Are Forgotten is

Privy to the White Man’s Privilege. 

I remember.