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Deer Hide is Thicker Than a Tribal ID
Out of the fog, she came
A woman with no name
A woman, a doe: the same
Naked and afraid
Unbathed and ashamed
Chased by Čhino:kehe
Blinded by rage
Darting into the night,
she collided with headlights
but left only tufts of hair behind
on the grill held together
for many moons and summers
by kindred sinew,
vanishing into the marshy dew
Out of the mist, she came
A woman knowing her name
A woman, a doe: the same
Strong and untamed
Armed and unafraid
Antlers circling her frame
Mother of Witą́e
Shedding all her blame
She stepped under the moon
ears alert, attuned
Bow strap hung loose,
arrowheads ready to prove
any man a fool
who sought harm to her kin
She, protector of women,
sits* patiently in waiting
Yesa:sahį (Tutelo-Saponi) translations:
Čhino:kehe (cheeno-kay-hay): buck deer
Witą́e (wee-tahn-aye): Deer Clan
*The choice of ‘sits’ over ‘lies’ in last line is intentional. In our language, actions are described based on gender and states of being—for example, ‘the woman sits and weaves,’ ‘the man stands and cries,’ and ‘the elder or baby lies down and smiles.’
We Remember
My ancestors want you to know they remember.
They remember the ships and the messengers of such ships.
They remember the gifts, promises, and treaties made.
They remember this now as love-bombing.
They remember the bullets in chests, the raping.
My ancestors want you to know they remember this as an apocalypse.
My ancestors want you to know they know where the bodies are buried.
They showed them to me in a dream—small and large, cocooned in wrappings, yet still bleeding through.
They showed me our relatives hanging in caverns: hidden, thought to be long forgotten.
They showed me the tiny bodies, as fresh as the day their lives were taken.
They lowered me down the pit: a deep and hollow grave, the blood staining my pajama pants.
My ancestors want you to know they know that the government thinks they covered it up,
but their bodies still cry out from the ground.
My ancestors want you to know they see it coming.
They feel the Earth shaking from the trauma Colonization has inflicted on her.
They smell the Earth leaking gas and oil: her putrid breath, her blood leaking from her.
They hear her wails as Colonization still beats and bruises and pimps her to the highest bidder.
They smell, they taste the coming death.
My ancestors want you to know they worry for you.
My ancestors want you to know they remember.
My ancestors want you to know they know where the bodies are buried.
My ancestors want you to know they see it coming.
My ancestors want you to know they worry for you:
that this will be you if there is no change.
My ancestors need you to see the truth, hear the cries, smell the rot, feel the blood,
taste the transgression.
My ancestors need you to know they deserve justice.
They demand justice.
My ancestors need you to STOP, to return to who you were created to be.
My ancestors need you to tell this story to anyone who will listen.
My ancestors want you to know they remember.
My ancestors want you to know they remember.
My ancestors want you to know they remember
and that they will never, ever forget.
How Do You Grieve the Loss of A River?
How do you grieve the loss of a River?
One dried up by dams
and colonially created drought
sapping Willow and Palo Verde of their life source,
stripping beavers and cranes of their homes,
threatening the O’odham sovereign right
to fish and swim
while their ingenious canals are appropriated
to pump stolen water
from sovereign nations in the north
to cities with chlorine levels so high
that you can light the tap water
on fire.
How do you grieve an Ocean?
One where orcas must capsize
commercial fishing boats to survive,
where sea lions and dolphins
choke on garbage,
where sea turtles wake up gasping for air
with iced coffee straws in their noses.
How do you grieve a River
that hasn’t yet been poisoned,
yet sits helpless?
Oil rigs speed toward her,
carrying the recipe
for adding one more zero
to a billionaire’s bank account
while threatening billions
of life forms across mountains,
hills, forests, and high plains?
Do you visit her like an elderly
grandmother in the hospital wing?
Do you tell her everything will be okay,
even when you know it won’t?
Do you tell her you’ll never leave her side,
no matter what?
(continues to next page with new stanza)
How do you comfort a River
who has poison in her veins
that will kill her so slowly
that her cries are heard
over many generations?
What can you say to the mosnuke
as they cry over their dead young?
How do you console the human mothers
whose children are diagnosed with cancer,
but can only speculate the source of sickness?
How do you tell a people,
many, many peoples,
who have been abused
and gaslit for so long
by their own government
to not drink away their sorrows,
to not numb their pain,
to be safe while their Earth
and Water Mothers are raped and murdered?
How do you tell them not to die with the River?
How much longer
can we hold on to the hope
that things will get much better
when, it seems, the worst is yet to come?
Yesa:sahį (Tutelo-Saponi) translations:
Mosnuke (moash-new-kay): otter
Kiho:e:ta (The One Who Will Return)
I blink,
my eyelids heavy
I’m driving
on the open road
somewhere between
Niagara Falls and
Buffalo
The night is coated in a moonless sky:
black and stark
Only the tree line is slightly darker
Headlights pour over banks of snow
once recognizable as roads
Flurries connect the Earth and Sky
The Great Lake, like an ocean, juts out its jagged shoreline
Rocks and boulders are mistaken for giants to the strained eye
The land is flat, smooth, enduring: a prairie beneath winter’s blanket
I drive until the scene becomes a tunnel of black
with white swirling
The monotonous humming of tires against road,
windshield wipers, and weather under tow
begin to shape a rhythm, begin to chant a song
The road hits the drumbeat
as the wipers squeak their vocals
And I remember why they call this place by its name
Millions of Eastern Bison used to roam here
with bones and teeth: ancient,
with sinew: tied to this land
I blink sleepily for a second too long
When I open my eyes again, I see her
I slam on the breaks, dumbfounded
Suddenly, Ia:p stands before me
Her beard an ice storm: dripping
Her breath a fog: rising
Her legs a forest: enduring
Her horns a halo: holy
I stop and check my rearview: no one
She stands alone in the middle of the road,
in the middle of the universe,
in the middle of eternity
She moves for no one
I turn on my hazards; I don’t want anyone to hurt her
I wait for what seems like forever
Before I know it, I am in front of my car
Nose cold: dripping
Breath tense: rising
Legs bent: shaking
Head bowed: humbled
She towers over me
Her prodigious gaze never leaves
I am terrified of her power
Honored by her presence
Euphoric in her aura
Rapturous at her return
Transported to her golden age
Suddenly, the sky erupts into a billion stars:
galaxies with bright pinks, purples, yellows, blues, reds, and white
all swirl around her
encircling her in effigy
I reach out, my hands trembling
Touching her wooly fur like a blessing
“Kiho:e:tawo?” I ask in a hushed whisper. “Will you return?”
“Ahá,” she answers in a huff.
“Tokhé:na:xwo? When?” I eagerly reply.
“Tokhé:na:x boš bí:ta.:
“When the circle is returned to wholeness.”
I blink,
my eyelids lift
But I’m still driving
Driving on the open road
somewhere between
Buffalo
and home
Yesa:sahį (Tutelo-Saponi) translations:
ia:p (ee-ahp): bison
ahá: (ah-ha!): yes (feminine)
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Mark Turcotte (Turtle Mountain Band Anishinaabe) has been an active member of Chicago’s thriving poetry scene for some 30 years, and was just named as the sixth Illinois Poet Laureate. He is the author of four collections, including The Feathered Heart and Exploding Chippewas. His poetry and prose have appeared in national and international journals and magazines, and are included in the first-ever Norton Anthology of Native Nations poetry. He served as 2008-09 Visiting Native Writer at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe. He has since been teaching in the English Department at DePaul University, where he is Distinguished Writer-in-Residence.
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Dominique Daye Hunter (Black, Yesáh) is a storyteller, speaker, advocate, and artist in poetry and sustainable fashion. Author of Seeds: Stories of Afro-Indigenous Resilience and Hasí Čigoyo (Sweet Berry), she explores trauma, healing, and safe spaces in Black and Indigenous communities. Dominique facilitates discussions around land rematriation, language revitalization, and community empowerment. A certified DEIB trainer, Dominique fosters inclusive spaces, holds a B.S. in nonprofit leadership, and is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing. She lives in Durham, North Carolina.
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Debra Yepa-Pappan (Jemez Pueblo, Korean) is an internationally acclaimed visual artist. Her multimedia practice, combining digital collage and photography, centers on themes about her mixed-race identity as she incorporates symbolic imagery influenced by her cultures and the urban environment where she was raised. Her artwork has been exhibited worldwide and featured in numerous publications. Yepa-Pappan is currently the director of exhibitions and programs at the Center for Native Futures (CfNF) in Chicago, a Native art space she co-founded to support Native artists. She lives in her hometown of Chicago with her husband, artist Chris Pappan, and their daughter Ji Hae Yepa-Pappan.
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