Listen, my Child -- For the International Council of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers

i like for you to be still, my child,
and listen to what your grandmothers
whisper to you
when the night is blackest,
and even the tigers retreat
into the shadows to sleep.

your black feet
and yellow feet
and red feet
and white feet
are birthed by the same mother
who holds and cradles you.
mitakuye oyasin.

we are one.
there is only one.
does it tickle your ear
as i breathe it into the air?

all of you, my seed carriers.
listen.
this is my precious give-away.

come to the sacred waters--
to the running waters
and to the frozen waters--
come and listen
to the ancient one.

for the selkie has risen from the depths
to bask on sun-baked rocks
as she has done since the moon was young.

but man has captured her
and dragged her away far from home.
she cannot go back
and drifts without purpose
while her sealskin stretches like
oil over water,
always out of reach,
black tears of her exile.

listen.

one among you will rise
and swim to her,
so that she may heal.

listen.

is it you?