Spyglass Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Spyglass

I sit in my sofa,
Is green with spots.

Let go of my eyes, mind,
They take me all around,
Calgary, Saskatchewan
To Peru, Bolivia,
And Kabul to Russia,
Uzbekistan, Tajikistan…

I come to my senses
Raise my voice in silence:
"Am tired, please stop! "

Then smile…

Remember what happened
Last night, right at midnight.

I resigned…

Sitting home for me is
The worst of sufferings.

That is what I think of
When voice says:
"Read and write…"

"I do best if working…"
I reply…

Make coffee, breakfast
Set them all in front
And murmur to myself
As if am crazy or elder
Sitting there to advise:
"Be patient, follow this,
‘Time is cure, medicine.'"

Recall the interview
I had with Spyglass.

He is old, late eighties
And blind, so, can't see
But wisely he points
At each and everything
As if knows where each is.

Like most of Indigenous
Is full of stories
That whirl, make hurricane
With no end, direction
Unless you are aware
Of their ways and cultures.

He is a Mosquito
And has lived in reserve
For many, many years
And was chief of events…

Do not rush to stop
To ask what he has done
Just listen silently…

This is their protocol
And demand of the Cree:
"Don't stop the talker
Till is done with talking."

And he talks and takes us
To eighteen-eighty-five
And bitter sufferings…

To close, after long
I come up with question:
"Why are you Spyglass? "

I enjoyed the detailed
Story of the time
When came the ID cards,
Issuers asked people
Of jobs and profession:
"Grandpa told them how
He owned some spyglass…"