I have seen a warrior's face.
Warriors who go out for raids
And don't come back,
Or come back scathed
By what they've seen,
By what they've had to do.

And we had medicine for that,
The smoke, the stomp, the take-to-water for days
Until the heart was cleansed.
We had medicine for fear and shame,
Medicine to give you back your heart,
And help you live again.

But after that war,
Medicine stopped.
Rounded up, and no more talk
Of the Great Spirit, the principal people,
Our warriors were crippled
Unceremoniously,
And so were we.
And now, you call it PTSD,
But then, it was living catastrophe,
And it lasts
Many generations
Without the Right Medicine.

-jenn