"All My Ancestors" by Gnaomi Siemens
Cold bog pools, late wheat. Reeds bend
and tease their sex, almost Sumerian.
The sleeping women in the last long fields
are turning over the soil, under a grey sky
with their dream-talk.
A girl from a wandering band of what would be
Mohawk died here, just over two thousand years
ago since. She gave her body to her root-lover,
let her move her long fingers over her skin
until she became stiff and brittle and ran
liquid with pleasure.
Now all the women after, are her
lovers
and will praise her with gifts.
With their sacred rot, their bodies will mingle
in the making of new soil.
With gifts you will praise her.
Bring her sweetgrass from the Maritimes, gathered
after a hurricane, that you braided alone and singing—
“I know you, I know you.”
Bring her an eagle feather wrapped with a piece of red
cloth, torn not cut, since it belonged
to your beautiful sister who went to the lodge
with you and held your hand when you were sick
who lost her lover in a lake one night after the canoe sank
and had to swim to shore in the cold dark
following the path of the full moon, for miles, to collapse
on land finally safe, only to get terribly sick
years later and leave you with a small bottle of ash
and one eagle feather—
Bring her everything you got.
Bring her a photo of your firstborn from his second
passport, when he was little and his hair was long
and people thought he was a girl.
Bring her your black wool cape and bonnet,
that you stitched yourself while dreaming
of leaving your family and singing under
your breath, “I know her, I know her,”
soft, so not even the horses would hear.
Bring her the title page of the memoirs
of the girl from Los Angeles, who when she signed it,
looked at you, like she knew you and made you
want to love her, at least, for a little while.
Bring her a torn t-shirt from the one
who never called back.
Bring her a cup of water and a warm sweater.
Bring her stories and something sweet.
And then, when you can think of no other
gifts, give her your life. Do all the things.
If you want to go to a place, then go there.
If you want to say something to someone,
say it.
And the late wheat will ripe
and say, “I know you, I know you.”
Gnaomi Siemens is a poet and translator based in New York City. Her work can be found in Asymptote, Words Without Borders, The Believer, Slice Magazine, Portland Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Scores (UK), and American Chordata, among other publications in the US and abroad. She has read her translations at The British Library’s Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms exhibition in London, was selected by The Poetry Society of New York for a residency at the iconic Mid-Manhattan branch of The New York Public Library, and was a 2019 ALTA Travel Fellow. Her manuscript The Errant was a finalist for The X. J. Kennedy Poetry Prize.
