moon children who shed tears
when colonialist teddy bears claim this land is their's.
not a bugs world but we can still be kind.
drowning boy, run to the village; hurry.
he is dragged up and down a slope built with our hands,
so hurry, my popsicle is melting.
mash them berries and sculpt them clay into people.
please give me a pair of your shoes
because all we eat is bark and grass.
scrub scrub, this is for the people;
serve them.

{an ode to fragments of people i know}