Land Days
Every day is a land day somewhere.
People land upon each other,
steal the way the light fell through
particular trees that are gone,
tear up villages and gardens
as if they were weeds, weed out
particular people who are gone
from land that no longer holds
the way their laughter drifted through
open doors along with the smells
of their cooking. We land and are
landed upon, so what
does the windblown milkweed
seed say to the field’s edge, already filled
with fireflies and sassafras,
what does the tulipán say
shouldering in among roble blanco,
capá prieto? We choose, we
settlers in the grass, we
un-native to these fields,
these felled woods, these
cane fields and cafetales,
these houses built over graves,
we get to decide, we do not
have to be invasive
maybe the milkweed
rests lightly among the cattails
listening to the night
listening to how each part
sings, how the birches
and the earthworms
are speaking, we could
be like that, we could
listen, all our lives
be like the common
plantain, low to the
ground, rooting only
where there is room
between the conversations
of moss and stars,
join, not destroy, the ecosystems
join, not erase, the whole story
listen to the particular
crimes committed.
lean into their cold truth,
say yes this happened.
taste the ash of it, without
turning away, without lying about
any of it, yes we could
shred the deeds to
these houses built over graves
these manicured, gated
fictions about who
has the right to what, and tell
on ourselves, tell how our
family photographs, people
with our noses, eyes, hair
fleeing hunger, war, pogroms,
therefore always
one foot out the door,
tried to buy belonging, force
other people’s land to be home.
we could stay, both feet here
we could change
ourselves, not the stolen land.
become something else.
not, no matter how long we stay,
not native, we could just
root where we are,
in the crux of history
in the truth of it all
not so the land will belong to us
it can never
it is full of other people’s stories
we do not need to own their losses
or the way the light fell,
we do not need to
rename everything after
ourselves, piña is not an apple,
we lost the apples
we came across water in
leaky boats, we miss
a different light
but so that we can
not clearcut history, not plow
the wildflowers of the prairie
into acreage, but lie down in it
and be stained, overgrown,
we could adapt, cross-pollinate, become
naturalized, become common,
be low to the ground, rest lightly
honor the people, still here,
long before us
belong to the land.
Feel free to share this link widely, but please do not print it out without my consent. I make my living from my writing, and want you to buy the book, Rimonim: Ritual Poetry of Jewish Liberation.
Every day is a land day somewhere.
People land upon each other,
steal the way the light fell through
particular trees that are gone,
tear up villages and gardens
as if they were weeds, weed out
particular people who are gone
from land that no longer holds
the way their laughter drifted through
open doors along with the smells
of their cooking. We land and are
landed upon, so what
does the windblown milkweed
seed say to the field’s edge, already filled
with fireflies and sassafras,
what does the tulipán say
shouldering in among roble blanco,
capá prieto? We choose, we
settlers in the grass, we
un-native to these fields,
these felled woods, these
cane fields and cafetales,
these houses built over graves,
we get to decide, we do not
have to be invasive
maybe the milkweed
rests lightly among the cattails
listening to the night
listening to how each part
sings, how the birches
and the earthworms
are speaking, we could
be like that, we could
listen, all our lives
be like the common
plantain, low to the
ground, rooting only
where there is room
between the conversations
of moss and stars,
join, not destroy, the ecosystems
join, not erase, the whole story
listen to the particular
crimes committed.
lean into their cold truth,
say yes this happened.
taste the ash of it, without
turning away, without lying about
any of it, yes we could
shred the deeds to
these houses built over graves
these manicured, gated
fictions about who
has the right to what, and tell
on ourselves, tell how our
family photographs, people
with our noses, eyes, hair
fleeing hunger, war, pogroms,
therefore always
one foot out the door,
tried to buy belonging, force
other people’s land to be home.
we could stay, both feet here
we could change
ourselves, not the stolen land.
become something else.
not, no matter how long we stay,
not native, we could just
root where we are,
in the crux of history
in the truth of it all
not so the land will belong to us
it can never
it is full of other people’s stories
we do not need to own their losses
or the way the light fell,
we do not need to
rename everything after
ourselves, piña is not an apple,
we lost the apples
we came across water in
leaky boats, we miss
a different light
but so that we can
not clearcut history, not plow
the wildflowers of the prairie
into acreage, but lie down in it
and be stained, overgrown,
we could adapt, cross-pollinate, become
naturalized, become common,
be low to the ground, rest lightly
honor the people, still here,
long before us
belong to the land.
Feel free to share this link widely, but please do not print it out without my consent. I make my living from my writing, and want you to buy the book, Rimonim: Ritual Poetry of Jewish Liberation.
