This Is My RSVP

I’m old, wearing purple, silver hair
to my shoulders. I need a red hat

that doesn’t match. Poetic justice
here at the descent of the cold times.

All my misgivings rise. It is now in
the glooming fall that ancient practices

shift, their humble roots trapped under
lies twisting history. The victims of

church and state reduced to Boo!
and torturous excess at groaning

tables. The archetype of the genocide
purge of the Americas celebrated

casually painting good guy clothes
on He Who Must Not Be Named.

Never is it more obvious
the gilt cracking, exposing dark

stains. In our chosen costumes
we witness the hidden shadows

or turn away with bright
artificial smiles and beg

for treats. I’m going to your
party as a poem.

Inspired by: Thanksgiving, Shoulder and Humble, Indigenous Peoples’ Day instead of Columbus Day, the ugly story behind that first Thanksgiving, and the poem Warning by Jenny Joseph.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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