We bought land fifty years ago—

Four hundred feet from the reservation.

But the land has always been—theirs.

Before my fair-haired relatives sailed, and settled and sequestered

bold stands of Spruce, fields of camas, orca pods,

and waterfalls from the mountaintops—

the land—was theirs.

Their beaches of clams, and crabs, and snails—

who thought they’d burrowed and buried deep enough—

found—nothing was burrowed and buried deep enough.

My granddaughter travels a quarter of a mile

to the elementary school on the reservation land.

Where they honor the Indigenous Warriors of World War II,

ancestral drums, history dancers, storytellers.

Respected Native Americans bring homemade soup on Cultural Day,

sharing recipes, reading published stories from aunties, young fathers, and those passed on.

She studies in a classroom with Indian children, biracial kids, African Americans, and Whites.

Their history pages now speak some truth—and, at times, truth seems normal.

Yet, this is just one small school in a coastal state.

I wonder: Beyond my land—four hundred feet from the reservation—

What lies on all the other pages?

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