wičánȟpi [is Dakȟota for star]
I traipse in a forest dense
with fallen trees’ reverberations
few lend an ear to
how sweet, walking among the sap of languages.
grasp for any syllable distinguishable
from white noise, colonized vernacular
birthing a cacophony
the glare dims; now richness, now depth
finding myself among whispers
layering over each other
learning requires:
first. giving up control
beneath the canopy
next. listening to night fall
branches drawing
curtains on day
then. immersing, immersion, immersed
they take turns
sing to the moon
in their native tongue
brightening, fading
growing, shrinking
the universe is their stage
who am I to an audience of planets?
although there’s no interpreter
I know one star sings of love
their words unfurl, cradle my head
left in quietude’s expanse, searching
overhead for them, pleading
for an encore, remembering
this is all transported
borrowed time before
the unbearable beam of english
projected out and up
polluting [do not
confuse with outshining]
leaving in its wake
opaque colors
a canvas painted over
meant to trick the mind
into believing nothing, no-one
was here prior
Gillian Joseph (they/them) is a queer, 2-Spirit Ihaŋktoŋwaŋ and Mdewakaŋtoŋwaŋ Dakota storyteller who grew up as a guest on Waxhaw and Catawba lands. They are an assistant folio editor at Anomaly and enjoy spending time near mní (water) + trying to figure out what their dreams mean.
