The Novelist’s Comments
After I read my poem addressed to one of his people’s heroes,
in his reclaimed, autochthonous voice
the novelist doesn’t say:
This is our language, our land.
Nor does he say:
Why don’t you go back where you came from?
And in what he doesn’t say he is echoing the woman
who after burying her father – a rare fluent speaker of language –
declared she should have chucked his tapes and journals,
his repository of the tongue, after him into the mouth
of the grave:
So that the white bastards wouldn’t get that too.