Poem: Reporting Live, Maybe the Clans Are There

Reporting live,
From da woods,
The podunk parts of the "State of Michigan,"
Where redneck-hick-NDN folk wander in da woods,
Flannel shirt wearing,
Truck driving,
Wood smoke smelling folks,
Resin on our hands,
From tending to the fire,

The pines are beautiful,
Maple trees,
Burnt orange and brown colors,
Sun setting pink beauty,
Dashed across the sky,
Fog settling in,

Appearing,
Disappearing,
Reclusive,
Rustic rust belt,
Fight,
Flight,
Hardship,

Maybe the clans are there,
To help her,
The teachings,
Support her,

As the sun was setting.
Who would listen to the marginalized,
When we aren't popular,
Or dressed the way you prefer,
In our flannel shirt,
Jeans,

And we show up in our rusted truck,
With dirt covering the sides,
And you critique us and call us "country,"

Defending our territory,
Defending our people,
As Anishinaabekwe,
You can label us,
As we don't fit into your world,
We decline your offer of the comfort that kills,
The soul,
The heart,
The clans are there,
In the lowlands.