No One Gets Hurt Poem

 

No One Gets Hurt

“The Ancestor Poet Speaks”

(mythic, comedic, grounded in your ancestral cadence)

The reaches come from underneath— always tugging at the ground as if pulling hard enough might justify the weight they carry. They stretch, they retreat, they talk in circles, smile politely… yet never touch the truth. You know the type.

And I ask myself: When is justification too justified? When does pleasure cross its own line? We hold our own as long as we can. And when we can’t have any more, we pretend we were never thirsty.

But these waters are warm, and our thirst is great. One spill, one day— that’s all it takes.

So I lift my cup high, high enough that God might take a sip. And if He spits it back, well… that’s holy too.

Under these clouds I say: Bring me a rainy day. Wash off the regrets. Wash off the hate. Let the rain cleanse us again.

And from that rain comes food— the last harvest, the last bloom God gave and took back, as He always does.

Hold on to me with every drop of wine. Strong backs ache, but they heal the stomach and strengthen the heart. That’s the trade.

I smoke the herb to speak with God. Every puff rises like a prayer— some for the Saints, some for the ancestors, all of them laughing and crying at once. It’s an offering we keep together.

Many come to my house— my home, my temple. I am lucky. Lucky to have friends who were once enemies. Lucky to have friends who became friends only yesterday. Lucky that we are all here again.

I stopped growing at twenty‑three. That’s when I died— midlife crisis, right on time. But I kept living at twenty‑three, and everything after that has been memory, echo, and the strange wisdom that comes from forgetting just enough to stay sane.

You drink a little. You smoke a little. Nobody gets hurt.

— A Native American Ancestor Poet