Free Clay Pots and Bones by Lindsay Marshall Page B

apaja’sit,
    alapa’sit puktewiktuk,
    nutqo’ltite’wk ankama’titl
    askise’nmi’tij puktew,
    wel pmiaq puktew,
    wenaqapa’sit, wasoqa’latl wtmaqnml,
    illama’teket, na poqj aknutk,
    poqji a’tukowajik nutqo’ltite’wk,
    ankamajik aqq nemi’sit aqq kejitoq
    nekm nike’ankamut,
    nekm nike’ jiksitut aqq nekm nike’kisiku.
    kisiku ata’a’tukwet.

Two New Poems

Demasduit
    In the National Library and Archives Preservation Centre
    I saw sights
    no one from my tribe
    has ever seen.
    I saw paintings of canoes,
    of birch bark wi’kuoms,
    and brown faces
    encased in oil.
    In these crypts
    where the temperature is perfect
    the humidity constant,
    paintings, sealed off
    from man and catastrophe.
    She was the last
    known image of a race,
    a tribe.
    She was wrapped in a fur stole,
    and her eyes looked out and saw
    she was the last known image.
    She was Mary March,
    she is Demasduit.
    As the drawer rolled shut
    and she returned to the stony silence of her crypt,
    awaiting the next generation,
    I wept.

Our Sisters
    Our sisters –
    Who has seen them last?
    The 824 who speak
    No more, nowhere,
    Their songs fell silent,
    Their trail on glassed ice
    Rubbed away till gone.
    Speak – we must speak
    Dance ­– we must dance
    Warn others – we must warn
    Search – we must search
    Our sisters
    Our mothers
    Our aunts
    Our cousins
    Our friends
    Without you the pain grows
    Without answers
    More will be taken.
    No more.
    Taho.