What it was like, for me,
from my perspective,
didn’t survive; wasn’t deemed
worthy of documentation.

My vagina was turned
into a conduit for colonialism.

Colonialism went in
and when it came out,
I was pretty much erased.
Any remnant of remembrance
was converted to Christianity
and I ended up dying

so far from my home
so far from the people
who, despite letting me languish
a whole year and then some,
still would not have slept
on my grave.

This is their perimeter of peace.
This is why it’s personal
and why I, Pocahontas,
permute my personality
for the poet.