I live on those laughing waters—Minnehaha—it’s my road,
but it doesn’t laugh; it cries, floods, and through the loud roar,
both of new-land galoshes and white-teethed grins,
haha can only mean one thing to a settler—emojis of old.
But if you look far enough,
past the canopy,
past the stumblers,
the Chinese market, coffee shops, hardware store,
you can hear the waters as if the world was created out of one breath, Spirit, oh Spirit.
Spiral Dynamics say purple is the aura of the tribal—togetherness and myth.
I say listen to the wind while you can, before all the leaves fall and the buses come by to squish their orange skin to dust before the white, pure snow turns it all to garbage.
If you cover it up, you can pretend its not there,
but there are still mounds of bodies. You can see them. You can’t pretend they aren’t there
while you slide down homicide on your toboggan,
only to await hot cocoa in your home
past the frozen tears of the world’s forgotten language.