California Indian
By Emily Clarke
our people were migrators;
like birds, we traveled across deserts,
over each brown mountain and towards
the california coast with juncus-grass baskets
and carrying nets tossed over our backs.
it is said that our people were looking for home,
somewhere to settle like the particles of dust
that blanket each reservation truck
rumbling down the dirt roads in summertime.
we found home amongst the acorns,
smooth and brown against the forest floor
like scattered gold. we found home
within the pale sprigs of white sagebrush
and below each towering redwood.
we found home between the fingertips
of basket weavers, entwining willow
and redbud with wefts like stitches between beads.
traditional knowledge passes through generations
like dried salmon passes from hand to mouth.
bird songs live in the breath of each newborn baby
and flicker feathers dance on the eyelashes:
whose bodies will sweat to form red plank canoes
if not those that came from our own wombs?
traditional knowledge waits under the tongue,
behind the surface of a woman
and her tattooed chin, eyebrows furrowed
in the back of a university lecture hall.
traditional knowledge grows like light
between the fisted palms of a peon player
on a winning streak in early morning.
our people kiss knowledge onto the cheeks
of aunties as they pull creamy white blossoms
from the yucca stalk. our people
braid knowledge into the hair of our children,
whisper it into their ears like prayer each night.
our people share knowledge through stories
told by elders sipping elderberry tea on back porches
and reports published in journal pages
that echo with the power of our voices.
like the salmon returning to our rivers,
we remember home not by the palm fronds
decorating the sky, but by the mouths
who wove stories like nets
while we danced along the riverbank.
