you gave me a home in water, then a name,
next a sister, who shed and shared tears,
who screamed blame as I carried water.
now that we know being alive is your burden
we are together, left at the limit of your leaving.
my name ends as yours ends, an ah of opening
allowing, awaiting, always, another
my name begins with the same ah, afterlife
since that is the only home you could show me.
I return to the water and wonder
what home could have known me if ancestors
had stayed where the water had placed them
where the birch tree had birthed them
where bear, moose, caribou had known them
would you still be a home for me and my child
could you have gifted a name of more meaning
but ancestors crafted, some sooner, some later
to travel far, to take, to drink, to swallow
land, lives, liberty, language, all stolen
a gift of life given in theft continues to steal
to stand upright, with roots under oceans
to daughter, to mother, give back a gift each day
knowing that genocide has no repentance
land holds ghosts, living with hauntings
to teach responsibility when you taught me none
can I learn quickly enough to unlearn for you too
for love never spent could yet be squandered
for your birthday, a layered cake for memory
are the seven layers the same number seven here
is the layered cake more than mass graves
where you shop, can I stand in solidarity
where you park your car can I stand in ceremony
for love for life for loss of life for new life for love
so I will dig deeper, seeking the grandmothers
who stayed, who sang for the babies, for bluebird
who said don’t get lost to greed and violence
what name would they have given you
so you could want to stay, proud descendant
what name would you have given me
asking, accepting, alone and abiding