Seventh Generation – a Poem by Kinsale Hueston

Seventh Generation – a Poem by Kinsale Hueston

we’ve sprung from wind-whispers, from dead-end streets,

from cities with iron-clad jaws, our fathers

slinking back home when the moon has slipped out of sight;

from our mothers smelling of aloe and commodity grease—

            this is how we come into the world, shaking the love

from our hair; they spit in our faces and we backhand away

the hate while half a country away another Native child

 learns her language’s word for alive. this

was never a diaspora, never a home-coming; this

is knowing we are where we have always belonged;

this is taking back where we belong; 

this is a riot; these homes we carve

out of nothing, out of each other; the poetry 

of landscapes we either see behind closed eyes or somewhere

in our ancestry. we are where we have always meant

to arrive, pushing our hands against the open sky,

alive and pulsing with generations of light—the seventh:

we stand, we brush the dirt from our hands; we break open

inherited beginnings and begin to build up 

from the fault lines.