Outside in the street someone’s grandfather stoops,
sweat beads home to road dust. A bent hanger,

rusted. Only a handful of bread. These mornings
not yet countries of belonging & from our apartment balcony

a survey of fraught provinces & city lines. The waters surrounding,
a borderlands. My people, we traffic in hunger: we know

& know & feast on knowing
& do not walk with, toward healing. I am still crossing

this street. Which is to say I weep for the living
as for the dead. Which is to say I have a thousand grandfathers

& they elder the streets, scattering bread for the bird – O ears,
bow. Seek what cannot be conjured. Only birthed

& received. Where is evidence of this listening in full feather? Where,
my people, familied again & following? Where,

even a small piece of earth, these broken down shells
& walls, held by the turtles back? Bodies, rest on this – generations

are speaking & our mother still waits for us, mouth lined
with salt breath, arms full of birds

Fran Westwood writes, grows vegetables, and is a psychotherapist supporting individuals experiencing addiction and mental health challenges. Fran is of Scottish-settler origin and is grateful to live on the traditional territory of the Anishnaabek peoples, particularly the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation.

This article first appeared in Geez magazine Issue 62, Fall 2021, Dismantling White Theology.