To speak of dispossession is to trace a burial site that is bodies deep. This is a ghost and it knows not how to sleep. You pound the earth to smooth it flat and hope that none will stare too hard where you have hidden these secrets in an ancient land to keep. This string is tangled and unless you unravel it you will turn this way and that and no matter, there it will trap your feet.

To reckon with this country is to reckon with what lies in the land. Swipe at the surface. Make no mistake, these bumps are bones. They are kept covered with denial. This is the shield of a lie. None can tell where it ends or where it even begins.