Standing in the Aboriginal Arts Gallery,
my eyes lock on
a carved soapstone.
Behind thick glass case, the haze
an old man’s sealed code
cries for the last person of his tribe,
nothing left but sand,
no dust to hold the chief’s tears.
Now the rain
is tapping on their dead land,
their broken arrows,
drift through our revolving doors,
evaporate among soaring skyscrapers.
The gallery becomes his last
his freezing island;
No matter how deep history sinks
in a long and hidden river;
no matter what
currents wash up.