Our Home on Native Land

They say Canada is practically oozing in a maple syrup niceness.

Sickening sweet, teeth rotting in excuse mes and thank yous.

A continuous loop of opening doors for one another.

Down to the thin lip smiles vanishing into the abyss.

Playing patty cake in the form of passing along cuisines

and rocking out to beats in unfamiliarity.

We truly lost the plot,

drowning in a daydream of gravy on top of poutine.

Diminishing culture into the point of view of whiteness.

God forbid I mention that part out loud.

I am not hateful

but last time I checked

This country’s been diverse

without greedy corporations

mentioning out loud it in its job postings.

But behind your back?

You’re one of “Those People”

In the same tone of an alien invasion.

Ask me where I’m from again like my name is E.T.

If I phone home, it’ll connect me on the same piece of land.

The very piece of polluted ground we are both standing on.

I was birthed here many moons ago,

28 of them to be exact.

In the name of historical accuracy,

We know the original inhabitants.

Dare I say, the Indigenous people?

Yes I may.

When Jully Black sang that single On!

I was singing it correctly the entire time

Without my little head realizing the imaginary light bulb

Because to claim ownership a landscape that was never discovered

has a root of evil dug into the deepest soil.

Where the unmarked graves reside as the result of a cultural genocide.

Remember this denial.

Sit with this denial.

Swallow this denial.

Observe this denial.

We live in cycles as human beings.

Doomed to repeat what we choose to ignore.

Many of us are not accepting the truth for what it is.

Outside our country, others mirror the same suffering.

All occurring in similar waves, all at once.

The tides we imagine behind our screens

are monstrous waves, large enough to digest cities.

Is the window wiped clear enough for you?

Have you unfogged your glasses?

The clarity I’m serving up on a platter

Cannot be any brighter.

Our home on Native land.

It was never ours.

Is there truly freedom

if only a select few qualify?

about the poet

Rachel Barduhn (she/her) is a Queer Afro-Jamaican and German poet/writer from Ontario Canada. She started writing poetry at the age of 12 and hasn’t stopped since. Rachel isn't confined to a niche but wants to captivate her readers and listeners with all kinds of messages and heartfelt words. She has had various publications across online mags such as: Opal Age Tribune, Scarborough Arts Big Book of Art and PITCH MAG issue 3. In 2022 she released her first chapbook with Bottlecap Press, Odd Girl, Odd World.  When she isn’t writing, she is recharging by creating poetic collage pieces.