nikî-pê-pimiskân ~ I Came This Way by Canoe

kayâs-âyiwan anima mêskanâs ê-kî-pisci-miskamân, kâ-kî-âpacihtâcik nitâniskêwiyiniwak

I stumbled upon that ancient trail, foot-fallen by my ancestors,

overgrown with green, bramble, centuries of former lives.

That green, wet place where my grandmother’s

mothers lived, breathed, died:

Lac du Bonnet, Manitoba.

June, 1989:

nikî-pêtâpoyon,

There, on another river:

êkota kotak sîpîhk,

wînipêk sîpîhk.

We pulled our canoes up on shore,

stood there sweating, swearing

at the buzzing in our ears, peering

through the peepholes of our mosquito netting.

Comrades paddled those canoes with me,

sharing food, bugs, sunshine, rain;

travelled with me as I explored

former lives.

Others, a convoy of my ancestors,

in my paddle,

in my pack,

in my experience,

wraiths insisting on a presence.

Shoulders, backs, abdominals, we are

our muscles. We move those canoes.

We are

perpetual.

motion.

nitihtimaninâna, nispiskwaninâna, nitaskatayinâna,

ê-maskawisîwiyiniwiyâhk.

nitâhkami-mâ-miyo-pimâtisinân.

êkota ê-kî-nîpawiyân.

There I stood: worn like our trail, weary

like the grip on my paddle, smeared

with mud, sweating like the river, straining

to hear the whispers of my foremothers,

searching for the footprints of my forefathers.

Eavesdropping on my ancestors,

now I hear footfalls that echo through time.

ê-kîmohtawakik nitâniskêwiyiniwak.

anohc êkwa nipêhtên ê-matwê-pimohtêcik, ê-paswêwêki, kayâs nâway ohci.

My grandmother knows that insect-infested place,

Lac du Bonnet. Her uncle drowned there,

her mother was born there,

and her grandmother before that.

Here I stand: looking, leaning back.

I breathe,

live,

want to know who I am,

search for who they were.

ê-na-nîpawiyân ôta: ê-âpasâpahtamân, ê-âsôsimoyân.

niyêhyân,

nipimâtisin,

ê-nôhtê-kiskêyihtamân awîna niya,

ê-nanâtawâpamakik awînipanak wiyawâw.