From river woman. Reproduced with permission from House of Anansi Press, Toronto.

after the Red River “Rebellion” of 1869
Louis Riel went crazy
he ran off and hid
in a bush along the Seine
a land that jutted
out into the stream
a place everyone called
Vermette’s point
just a thick
mass of thin trees
next to a narrow
slot of ploughed land
meek farm house
a brief place
nondescript
but the prideful home of my great-great uncle and aunt
Riel stayed there a month
a long month when
spring spread out slowly
separated him from his “crimes”
I imagine my aunt left food for him
at the bush’s edge
bannock lard and meat on an old tin plate
a meal for a dog
or a “rebel”
something he would have to hurry to
so the foxes didn’t get there first
some say that’s where Louis took
the name David where
in his cold hungry penitence
God spoke to him
gave him his divine purpose
and a middle name
when Louis Riel was hanged in 1885
my great-great uncle had no land
Manitoba had become a province
Canadian surveyors came in
and Métis homesteads were dissected
bisected
halved
quartered
over and over again until
nothing was left
only a square to balance one foot on
for only one second
before they all fell over
Ottawa took it all by then
all those half breed lands
ribbon lots not “properly bought” were sold
and my ancestral uncle’s home was pulled
up from under him like a rug
rolled up from the river’s edge
all the way to the road
tucked under Canada’s collective arm
and chucked on an eastbound train
with all the other rugs
all the other
rolled-up land
became tidy
cylindrical tokens
conquered
presents to be presented
to John A
nothing more than
rolled-up grass like pressed cigars
he lit up and smoked
’til they were spent
only white
ash brushed off
red coats
and made
nothing

there is still a place called Vermette
just southeast of Winnipeg
still along the Seine
it has
a postal code
a store and a sign because
they let us use the names of our dead
as if that means
we’re allowed to honour them
we do not forget our dead
we know where they are
and sometimes we pull
them out of the ground like relics
we brush them off
wonder at their possibility
like rotting bulbs of some
rare and fragile orchid
we tend to them
all winter
put them back
into the earth come spring
with nothing
more tangible than hope to
make them flower
our names are scattered
seeds all over this
mother land
fathers’ name
sons’ names
Ritchot
Beliveau
Beaupre
just words long lost of meaning
Dumont
Desjarlais
Debuc
Leduc
south side street signs
markers
Tourenne
Turenne
Traverse
Trembley
the city is a graveyard
Guimond
Guiboche
Guibault
Gautier
my “conquered” people
these children of bereft sons who
once thought themselves so grande
they had the nerve to create
a province
Carriere
Charriere
Chartrand
Cote
dead names breathing
thin dusty life
and Riel
Riel
everywhere Riel
we are intertwined within
this city
as if we belong
as if we are honoured