Scofield - Witness, I Am

Witness, I Am Witness, I Am Gregory Scofield 2016 Copyright Gregory Scofield, 2016 all rights reserved . No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, . Nightwood Editions P.O. Box 1779 Gibsons, BC v0n 1v0 Canada www.nightwoodeditions.com cover design : Angela Yen cover image: Making Peace With Hurt by Jeffrey Crowe, YellowQuill First Nation typography : Carleton Wilson Nightwood Editions acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishers Tax Credit. This book has been produced on 100% post-consumer recycled, ancient-forest-free paper, processed chlorine-free and printed with vegetable-based dyes. Printed and bound in Canada.

CIP data available from Library and Archives Canada. isbn 978-0-88971-323-9 Muskrat Woman for nimmsis, Georgina Muskrat Woman This poem is a retelling, a reimagining of a much longer tayhkwinaCree Sacred Story. In my teachings, one is not supposed to say kistsinws (elder brothers) other name, wsahkchk, during the summer months. It is considered inappropriate to use his name when there is no snow on the ground. I miyaskm kinws After a long time He says, Get me a pieceOf the old earth. She says, Fuck you!Get your own dirt. He says, aws! Get meSome of the old earth.Go awayFuck you! She says. hw, acimo! she says. Tell the storyNot before the old earth, he says. Tell the storyNot before the old earth, he says.

Then her paws slip Into the consonants Of her old name, The sound of mud. It was true. She was a dreary old cynic. But she had those rights. She left good cheer the day The Black Robe stunk On top of her. In his hunger He called out the other names, The ones like Ramona, Alberta, Delphine, Roxanne And Lana.

Those names He left on a highway. But mostly with her He cried, Oblige me. The wafer of his tongue Was his weapon and so, too, Were his hymns and prayers. He made her believe In the implication of loneliness. The bricks of that place Eventually made her eyes go dim. It made her hate the old earth. So she had rights.

A short time after His careful thinking, He says, Get me a pieceOf the old earth.Fuck you, she says. Get your own dirt. His hand was quick, So much so her mouth Exploded like a parasol, The bones of her face Stretching tight, tight her skin. He says, Get me someOf the old earth. smak!Right awayFuck you, she says. Get your own dirt. His hand was quick. Tell the story, she says. Fuck you, he says. Tell your own story. kisyiniw said it was Old Man Her own damn fault. Tell your own story. kisyiniw said it was Old Man Her own damn fault.

He grumbled about Her being a dumb bitch And gave everyone The burden of suffering. Some say that is what Made her hitchhike On the highway. But her borrowed rib Just rotted away, All worm-kissed Like the fruit she gave him, The one who cried And promised to tell The story. He even sang His grandfathers song, The lullaby for Water Beings. The highway was her last resort. She simply wanted air.

But in the bush that night, Clinging to her breath, She dreamt she dove into The water, an endless silk ribbon Taking her down and down To where she could see everything. It was so clear, the Old World. Her sisters had their own ribs. They were growing fruit trees, So many they had little use For collective guilt. By the sweetest tree Her nhkom met her. grandmother She said, My girl,Once you were wacaskwmuskratBut your real nameIs Swimming-with-a-bundle.Back then you liked to collectAll sorts of things.

One timeYou took a male, a femaleOf each animal. You made a boatWith your teeth, the cutting ones.You made a boat with two birch treesAnd with pitch you made it float. She thought about what her granny said. Above her came the sweet sound of singing. She was certain she heard two voices. Then she said to her nhkom, Yes, its odd no one thoughtTo call me wise. But there againI am brown and my namesHadnt been spit into existence,The ones like squaw and cunt.Those came on a different boat.Those landed with a new tongue.I tried to drown themBut they wouldnt sink.So I put them in my bundleAnd starved them of light. Then she said, sucking on The fruit her granny gave her: And then there were the namesI collected before the investigation.Those ones I took from the farm.I dug up with a backhoe.They had to be sifted like flour.There were bones, too,Without names.

Those onesI wrapped in red clothBefore I put them in my bundle.I called them wacaskwmuskratAfter myself becauseJane Doe had no sound.Then it started piss-pouring rain.So I crammed all those animalsOnto my boat. When we were awayFrom him, I started singingThe names. I sang them like this:Mona, hey-ya-hey-yowMarnie, hey-ya-hey-yowAndrea, hey-ya-hey-yowSereena, hey-ya-hey-yowGeorgina, hey-ya-hey-yowBrenda, hey-ya-hey-yowThe others I sang, too. She was brown And all those names Lived in her pulse. But then his song Pulled her to the surface: Get me a piece of the old earth, He says, And Ill make plentyOf roots for you to eat.I will create rushes so youCan make a nice house.wcistakc! she says. Oh, my goodness.What kind of house? Now her eyes are two skipping stones, The kind born to young women. So many pots and pans,Youll never tire of cooking.ekwa nnitawkahkiyw ncisnak?And what about my sisters?Hmm, he says. Its only accessibleBy bush plane or boat. Then he shows his pretty teeth. Its only accessibleBy bush plane or boat. Then he shows his pretty teeth.

He didnt want to speak about boats.