This Day
the Cree child, kâ-nêwonâskatêw’s grandson, works
at perfecting his one hard line
on the board: I will not speak Indian anymore
one hundred times
and the girl with the shy smile makes hand stitches
tiny staccato notes a cryptic code no one can crack
white thread on white cotton apron invisible
messages for each girl to carry close to her heart as she works
from one side of her day to the other
Miss Blinkensop and her camera set to capture the mundane
moments as obscene as the sun through the south window
Baby Thomas coaxes a smile out of the headmaster’s wife
bangs his chubby fists on the table, tripwires her severity
when he grabs her hand in his strong baby grip
and pulls it to his mouth
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