Poet: Esme Crillion
Miners in a cave
covered in soot, and tears
that staled upon
dad’s first lesson
about manhood,
are akin to the liver
that takes a beating,
which is like the lover
that couldn’t hurt a fly.
A ravine run dry
of water and gold,
requires a man
to sift with patience.
These cherokee drums
and the sap
from this old maple,
which is just as thin as water,
are just as full of life,
as your mother’s
round belly
on that sweet afternoon
some summers ago.
Buffalo Said
By Ben Weaver
Once Buffalo said,
Because we are not changing, the climate is.
When he spoke
I heard feathers brush against bells
spiraled shells turn
in the sloshing waves
breaking around my ankles
so small upon the earth.
Despite inherited
and standardized norms
insisting the world is made up of facts
rather than metamorphoses
I know that I do not exist in isolation
from any form of intelligence or life in the universe.
Our routines can be containers
for our healing and connection
or our routines can be containers
for our wounding and disconnect.
Within the integrity of a braid
I wrap my visions for the world
I imagine possible
twisting them in
with what is.
Because tress exhibit
the kind of love
that the arrogance of reason
has separated us from
I keep seeds in my hands
to remember the role
of personal healing
in collective healing
so I don’t forget
diversity is a form of resilience
and a refusal is also an affirmation.
A tree is not a tree
a tree is a forest
when in doubt
consult the grandmothers.
My prayer is that we can become
comfortable without taking
and learn to be soothed by giving
to replace the void of consumption
with the fortitude of community
to approach the dissonance
with possibility rather than limitation.
I’ll never forget last time I saw Buffalo
he was singing
If you are proud of who you are
you should be out here
dancing around in the circle of life.