Mak̇a Uƞk̄ik̄suyap̄i (The Land Remembers Us)

I wish there was
a better way
to start this poem
other than
I come from
a people shattered
by violent hands.

History tells this story
in different ways.

I chose to tell it from
the eyes of the dirt,
the hands of the trees,
the mouth of my ancestors.

I call this truth.

I come from
a people shattered
into fragments
scattered across a land
that weeps.

This is both metaphor
and literal.

What it is not,
however,
is an ending
or a beginning.

UƞLak̇ot̄ap̄i.
We are Lak̇ot̄a.

Waċiƞuƞṫaƞk̄ap̄i.
We persevere.

Fragments
become seeds
where the land
remembers our name.

Mak̇a uƞk̄ik̄suyap̄i.
The land remembers us.

Su iċaġap̄i.
Seeds grow.

And when I look around
I see the buds
of what is and will be.

Have you ever witnessed
a child speak Lak̇ot̄a?
Have you seen the little ones
dance at waċip̄i?

If so, you’ll understand
that despite loss
we are not lost.

We are seeds
prayed into existence
by our ancestors
blooming
rooted in a land
that remembers our name.

UƞLak̇ot̄ap̄i.
Waċiƞuƞṫaƞk̄ap̄i.
Mak̇a uƞk̄ik̄suyap̄i.