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.