4 Years, 471 Miles Later
Every stroke of a paddle
the ripple of longing.
Here pictograph spirits
ochre and ancient
dance across moving water.
Hegman Lake too will disappear;
nothing new to be found.
We are in memory of noodin--
yes, wind carries each howling,
carries us, ma’iigan, ajijaak.
Water songs still rise and echo.
Choose A Side in the War
In the static of telephone wisdom
and cramped postcard graffiti,
you blow me reminders:
How I am no daughter of Eve
wear no inheritance of small greed--
our hungers, you say, have always been larger.
How in the place where water and sky meets
we become the snatch of eagle’s claws
leave trace or map—this skeletal memory.
There, you say, the ancient rain
wipes away disguises.
Yes, we live lonesome; we live joined--
each breath, collected and transposed.
The Timbre of Astral Voices
Ledge rock nights we swim soul deep in stars
moved by a sky of lights already switched off.
In another place we too are cold darkened bodies
but laud the streaks we leave in our lonely wake.
This brilliant blaze we paint with our limbs
trembles at last into holy nothingness,
leaving a clean canvas of neither water nor sky--
this place where stories began no space of opposites.
Ancestral whispers, tiers of Anishinaabeg sky--
our seasons filled with Wintermaker, Mang,
Ojiig and Mooz—celestial tracings of tribal light,
mythic bodies. Our lips, too, mouth a song of survival.