Part of the ACC/CCA’s Knowledge Within Us digital publication.

Bloodlines

I inherit from my bloodlines

Filled with the hopes and dreams of my Mother 

my Grandmother 

Overflowing with memories

of pain 

of love 

of a thousand names for each caveat carved out of and into my flesh

 

Twisting and tracing into bodies unknown 

Names lost in the translation of a language cut into our tongues 

Caught within the trees so we can no longer hear their sweet whispers

It is where hands meet earth

Meet each other

Meet where stories blend truth

“That is not traditional”

Blow torches and swim shorts

But there is no room in the middle of the lodge

Boys to one side, girls to the other

Red flowing

Down our arms

Between our legs

Amidst each other

Weaponized in a way only the patriarchy understands

Injected into

Drowning out

Attempted banishment of our bonds

Memories locked in muscle that have yet to be untrained

Holding the blueprint to my being 

Stitching together the pieces dropped off over the centuries to create anew

It is the go between and the in between

Holding the unworthy with the salvation

Gifts unfelt but not forgotten

Absorbing what my mother knew

Her mother knew

Born into the knowledge of our ancestors

Deep in our chest 

At the tip of each finger

Brought to life with each intake of breath

I need to remember

Shielded by broken bones and promises

It sits

A truth willing to wait

Buried among but not tainted by our burdens

Flowing to and from generations now and past

Connected by a conscious knowing

Gifted into my body still cradled in my mother’s womb 

It is what I inherit from my bloodlines

Moonbeams and Starlight

Old teachings sit in my bones

Accumulating indiscriminately

Their stories a lifeline

Whispered in the crackles of burning cedar

Tucked in the feathers of robins

Woven in the mossy green hair of birch trees

Held safe by hands more practiced than ours

Our stories will come back

Existing in a space outside of our consciousness

But felt in a place of dreaming

Guided by moonbeams and starlight

Not quite sufficient to see ourselves reflected back in its silvery rays

But enough to awaken curiosity

Entombed by trauma gifted down from one generation to the next 

Holding fear as sacred

Red flags are not counted amongst the tobacco ties  

Yet they are adorned with huckleberries and thistles

Prayers carried on wisps of smoke and drum beats

Voices hoarse from singing in lodges

Inviting in and being held by our ancestors

Who know all too intimately our struggles

Whether to hold on or let go

Allowing it to be born once more

Our teachings sit in my bones

Permeating stories

Written by moonbeams and starlight

 

Northern Lights

 

Cold arctic nights feel like home

Black skies dotted with countless stars

They are the Grandmothers and Grandfathers

Holding eternal vigilance for those below

Existing in a kind of limitlessness we can only dream of

Shifting, moving, swaying

Their likeness trapped in the ice beneath our feet

Existing in fractals of red, blue and green

It is the time where they teach the baby spirits how to dance

Feel settled in their feet

Accept the shaky newness of each step

We watch from below

Listening to the soft fizz and crackle of a language not familiar to our ears

With a whistle we call them closer

Close enough to see the whisps of twirling skirts and scuttling feet 

Hoping to hear the tendrils of laughter and joy reach us on the wind

Here we stay

Beholding as the luminescence trip and twirl

Frost kissing the tips of our nose

Darkness held at bay by a light dusting of snow

Knowing what it means to be held

It feels warm

An ignited yearning

Familiar ache slightly too deep to touch

Holding hands muted by mittens

Breath burning away the static ache of winter

Before defrosting giggles wrapped in old blankets and woolen socks

Safekept by the rubbing of fingernails and zipping of zippers

In the season of night

All we can do is witness

Remnants

Surrounded by the remnants of our ancestors

Strewn in pieces marked 

Walled behind translucent glass

Armed with placards 

A location in time

Void of the intricacy hands used to shape 

Unrooted from the ground it was birthed from

Whose own are you? 

Warrior songs thrum in riverbed arrow heads

Savagery interwoven with the cracked shells and missing beads

Pictures still and stoic

Relegated to an exhibit hall

Alongside dinosaurs, neanderthals and mesopotamians 

Pieces of our history lay bare

Naked for thousands to see

Jagged edges smoothed over by time

White gloved hands gingerly hold and caress

Discerning eyes discriminating each crack and crevice

Please look but don’t touch

Dirty sticky fingers dragging on the cement walls

Groups full of oohs and ahhs

The building of crescendoing delight as they get to pay to see the Indians they saw in the movies

The thunderous noise of bodies mask the lamenting cries

It is not silent when restless spirits pace the halls

Unfamiliar images reflected back in the shadows of brushed metal

Wandering and lost

Please, let us go home

A generational mantra

Jurisdiction over our body only counts if you believe in our personhood

Written Gospel

 

Reading the words out of books like gospel

Holding ideas old white men jerked themselves off to

Doesn’t hold a flame to nights full of stories and prayer

Sitting lackadaisy around a fire laughing about our cousin’s cousin’s cousin

Who fell while dumping out fish guts into the lake

Sitting in chairs for 8 hours a day

Generation after generation

At least we don’t get hit 

We listen to the glorification of the desecration 

Of land, of soul

Of things that are held dear to the “conquered”

Lectures by those who are only interested in hearing themselves speak 

Not by the rolls of their tongue

But by the regurgitation of others 

Reflections of knowledge held deep within practiced lines

Painted by brush strokes so sharp as to cut out its truth on blank paper

Believing it will last forever

In the minds and hearts of those who unquestionably intake these interpretations

Embodying the fantasies of ancestors

Not ours 

The ones who could not see past the fireweed and caribou

Licking the slick black beneath our feet as if it was nourishment 

Filling bellies with falsehoods and promises of more 

Black tar covering the highways that told tales of hooves and mocced feet

Film topping the crests of rivers and streams

Ripples written from the backs of salmon 

Prose appreciated by only those who care to see it

Line upon line of long drawn out testimony

Of how they helped carve out their sacred waterways

The shifting of techtonics working in harmony with giants 

Settling new mountain ranges

Migration paths outlining it’s ridges and base

It is easy to remember stories

The ones left embedded in the landscape

Repeated for thousands of years

Unbridled by bindings of books

Immune to it’s rot

Having a dimensionality stronger than a line soaked in ink

Lessons don’t always come from the repetition of a time table

We offer drums and song for nourishment

Stories for water

Tobacco for relationship

Knowing that these roots and trees are more eternal than gospel