Lnu and Indians We're Called

At age seven

I go to school

The teacher is talking

I do not understand much of what he says

So my stubby pencil makes contact

With a scrap of paper

I print small words,

The ones I know,

I try to put them in order.

"Bring that paper here," the teacher yells.

Timidly I walk, my knees trembling

I hand him the paper.

His eyes widen, "Where did you find these?"

I point at myself, my head, my heart,

The fear lessening.

He reads my first poem,

A jumble of words

Kes-km-si' na

I've caught up with myself,

That is why I am here

Poetry is my tool,

I create as I go

Kes-km-si' na, I tell you now.

Maybe tomorrow I will leave you,

Remember my stubby pencil,

And you too may "do."

Na kes-km-sit-isk naki'l elt.

You too will be ahead of yourself.

From Lnu and Indians We're Called by Rita Joe 1991. Published by Women's Press.