mamakaadakamig

mamakaadakamig is Ojibwe for disappear

but I am not First Nation

nor practiced in the art

I only need to get it right … once

…

as a boy, I often dreamt of vanishing in the woodlands

away from the judgement and torment of my peers

surviving alone by my pluck and my wits

…

in a place where it’s easy to get lost

when the days grow short

and the tamarack and trembling aspen

glow in the golden light of autumn

…

away from cruel jibes and stares

the sudden shove or trip

papers taped to my back saying ‘kick me’

…

the desire growing to commit unflinchingly

to a lake in the far north

where frigid nights bring killing frosts

and blustery November winds prophesy December snows

…

but now I am old, jaded about the future

the bullies from childhood leading our once polyglot nation

kidnapping immigrants in the guise of securing borders

…

I pack food, warm clothing and heavy blankets

but dress lightly for paddling and portaging

sweating is deadly as numbing frostbite

though mamakaadakamig will come more quickly if I do

…

while amnesiac rulers persecute freedom of expression

soil our sacred founding documents

work tirelessly to take from us our freedoms for sake of liberty

…

this I hope to find in the stillness of northern waters

on lost trails in the boreal forest

or in the grandeur of eagles soaring upon the wing

a flint only for fire and a tent to call my home

…

away from the wretched 24-7 outrage cycle

away from gaslighting and pathologizing of dissent

away from the political machines grinding truth into dust

…

better the return to the purity of nature

escaping the noise and manmade light and corrupted air

where bird song echoes undiminished in the forest hush

and the bobcat, fox and snowy owl hunt the Arctic hare

…

‘woe to those who call evil good or good evil

who put darkness for light and light for darkness

that put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter’

…

for winter has come to the far north

and I lay upon a bed of pine straw in my snowy bower

my flesh pleasantly lethargic and numb

the release of a longed for escape a whisper upon the wind

…

for those who erase others will one day erase themselves

our forgotten voices echoing in the wasted canyons of tomorrow

and mamakaadakamig descends gently, like an abandoned dream