When I come back, I'll be like
the herd of buffalo arriving
at Standing Rock, the natural world
rising up to stand with the water protecters
who are trying to save the river.
Water is life! the warriors said, praying
under a hail of rubber bullets.
They stood in the water in winter
and were not cold, because the river
was with them, against the militarized police
and the black snake that would bring death
to their people.
When I come back, I will be like
the white Spirit Bear, swimming from
island to island in search of food.
Already, I am growing too weak to swim.
What will still be here, when I come back?
I will come back like the unsettled spirits
at Ninstints in Haida Gwaii. When you step
on shore even now, you can hear
the keening and wailing of those
in the Spirit World, the First People
who died in distress from smallpox
brought by the colonial invaders,
only the first of their burnt offerings.
When I come back, I will rise
from a small unmarked grave,
where, long ago, another child
was made to bury me,
under the heartless gaze
of the black robes.
When I come back, may no child
ever have to live under a gaze that cold.
Now I watch the skinny black bear
wandering, hungry, across the village green;
the thin grey wolf, loping along the shore
in search of the salmon that are no more.
I see dead whales on the beach,
stomachs full of plastic and styrofoam.
Raven and Heron and Eagle -
all of their eyes are looking at me
from the tops of trees: asking
what have you done to the world
once so abundant?
When I come back, if I am human,
I will wear a cloak of shame and guilt.
If I am of the beyond-human realm,
I will be wary, hoping the Two-Leggeds
have either learned how to live with the earth
or have disappeared in the floods and fires,
the pandemics and calamities of our times.
When I come back, will the world
have stopped burning? Or will it
be ash and stagnant water, from which,
eons from now, a small green sprout
may one day hopefully appear?
for earthweal where we are telling it like it is without compromise, in celebration of Ingrid Wilson's new book: The Anthropocene Hymnal featuring poems by some of earthweal's poets. Yay, Ingrid!
Sherry, I am so pleased there is a sequel! I think the animal and spirit world has so much to teach us: can hope exist only without us? Or perhaps (hopefully) in spite of us...
ReplyDeleteif we're really good, we'll come back as anything other than human, having learned our karmic lesson about human wrong. (Maybe I'll be a calico cat or bacteria in the intestine of a wolverine.) I love the calling of the tribes here, or buffalo, bear, First People and Eagle. The earthstock, her weal. Grief must rage, and does so here.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written and brutally sad. so many questions we have to answer for.
ReplyDeleteDear Sherry, this is exquisite.
ReplyDeleteI too hope we will have something to come back to. The Earth is speaking to us--will we listen, finally?
ReplyDeleteSo much pain, Sherry. this is clear and forceful. Great writing, grabs you by the collar and won't let go.
ReplyDeleteIt is hard to look into the future and imagine what it will be like. There is so much that needs healing.
ReplyDeleteWhen you come back, you will come back with all of the knowledge you have gained! And make a difference, that I know.
ReplyDelete