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Spoiled Milk

We are

The Sacrifice.

We are

The Sacrifice


Those without

True elders.

Those who have

Had to become elders,



And Parents.

Our own parents.

Never before

Have children been asked

To rise,

Asked to raise,

Siblings, children,

Parents, and communities—


We are.

We are those.

Those asked to guide



Would-be elders—

Future ancestors—

Into our dystopian


Those of you,

Generations, who

In your short-sighted



Left us.

Left us and

Left our children,

Your grandchildren,

An ecological and

Colonial debt

Humanity may not be able

To repay.

You cannot know

The rage of generations

Fed unrequited promises,

Straight from the teat.

Generations ago

Somewhere you learned

That all you need do

Is feed us

From your breast—

Feed our mouths but

Not our souls.

Feed yourselves but

Not the Earth.

Feed yourselves but

Not one another.

All you’ve offered is

Spoiled milk.

Of both childhood

And adulthood.

There is a reason

That indigenous

True First Nations people

Speak of Seven generations.

You exterminated

This wisdom.

And there is no

Statue of limitations

On this crime.

Yet still, like children

You take everything

But responsibility

For your own steps.

How can children

Have such heavy footprints

And leave such a

Deep depression?

Children usually

Have to be taught

To walk with awareness.


So we have taught ourselves.

And we have had to

teach you,

Spitting and crying.

If some part of you

Can finally fell


You may also call us

The Pivot.

We are the Pivot.

The Pivot,

In behavior, in healing,

In atonement, in recompense.

In cosmology.

We are the space

Where what must stop

Stops. And the space

Where the new



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