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Snagging the Eye From Curtis | by Eric Gansworth
The first time I saw you,
I noticed immediately
that your tones were brown
but not sepia
that there were no herds
of headless buffalo
dotting the landscape
behind you
no questionable blanket
mantled across your shoulders
no sun perpetually setting
on the mesas and plateaus
heaving themselves around you
in authenticity—
that you were not
a daguerreotype
a tintype
a stereotype
a bloodtype "I +"
percentages marked
by the yardstick
of a photographer
nearly convincing us
a century ago
we were ghosts trapped within
his snapping shutter
who was unaware
we could learn
where the F stopped
and how the light
metered out the ways
we knew ourselves
to be and not to be,
no question.
Repatriating Ourselves | by Eric Gansworth
There is no need
for you to give
back to us
what we already own
This is who we are
in the present
tense
no climate control
no tatters of cloth
no catalogued bones
no beads on loan
no boxes
no labels
no ceremonial tables
no tags
no medicine bags
no hermetic sealers
no deadly disease
no hypotheses
no educated guesses
no dioramas
no dramas
no arrays of diaspora disconnects
no displays of personal effects
in the present
tense
this is who we are
what we already own
there is no need
for you to give
back to us.
Speaking Through Our Nation's Teeth | by Eric Gansworth
When you see me
for the first time
at a powwow or social
across the circle
we dance
in which language and worldview
do you form your first
impression.
the one you were taught
in school, memorizing epics
and heroes of other
people, diagramming
sentences with the precision
of a surgeon, driving
modifiers and prepositional
phrases beneath the horizon
like roots or
dead relatives
or both
or the ones you were taught
hiding beneath
your mother's dining room
table, where she
and her generation
forgot you were there and
spoke of the giant turtle, the twins
the grandmother moon said
"Je-oos eh, awk-r(h)ee aw(t)-ness"
to one another, laughing
without fear of you
learning and growing
this voice they thought
would only keep you behind
I listen for Cheweant; Skenno; She'kon;
Guuwaadze; Hensci; estonko; Booshoo;
Dal-leh; osiya; ready to bare these teeth
in a smile where we find ourselves
and each other.
Rolling Those Sovereign Bones | by Eric Gansworth
Zero
to One
White
to Purple
Bead
to string
Bead
to Pull
Breathe in
to Out
Beat
(to pause)
Beat again
There are no guarantees that you
have any more than the last breath
you exhaled, the last blip
running the river of your wrist
so roll those bones across the dirt
take a chance on every dust particle, every
star alignment and face of grandmother moon
you can find, put on a little English
spin them from your digits
release them out into the world
gamble on these stories of our arranged
like vertebrae each one building
on those that have come before
reaching ever higher toward the sun.
Accept the odds work against
us, and take their charms we chance
along the way, electronic pulse,
magnetic tape, movable type
like Bead
to string
then Bead
to breathe in
to breath out
to Beat
then pause
to Beat
to purple
to white
then pull
to One
to Zero
Eric Gansworth (Onondaga) is a writer, poet and playwright. He recently edited the anthology
of Native writing, Sovereign Bones, for AMERINDA and Nation Books.
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