When the man who became my children’s father
first spoke to me of the west, under early snow
in an attic in Gloucester, the rivers in his telling were wide,
rich in stone, flowed smoothly, fed by glacier,
became life, fish and stream.
Nimiipuu, Nez Perce, Hells Canyon
names foreign as rock in my mouth.
What little I knew then of how to make a home of my body,
nurse a child, sleep alone.
The taste of these hills not yet baked in memory,
sage on tongue, wind in throat.
How little I knew then of harms done
in my not yet conceived name.
This land, these slow and rolling hills,
summer sun baking soil and skin.
Grown sons now fishing her waters,
daughter fighting her fires,
Wallowa, Whitman, named parks on stolen land,
putting her holy body in the face of flame
nearing cedar, what lengths we will go to
to save what we love.
All connected, this one body electric
that which we share I mean,
canyon and eagle, salmon,
goat, heifer and grass,
grandmother, root,
branch, berry,
each seed.
Ten thousand burning trees yet
no smoke that will cleanse us.
These waters, with mountains slowly drying,
above us,
this patient and infinite sky.
—
Amanda Kelly is a poet, essayist, activist and mother of five beautiful (and grown) children living on Vashon Island in the Salish Sea. She has been published in Soundings East, Arnazella, Cranky and was twice awarded the Marcia Doehner Award for Poetry at the Marblehead Festival of Arts. Her poem “Morning Regret” was the South Seattle Festival of Words and Art winner in 2008. Recent work can be found in Pivot & Pause: A Poetry Anthology of Resilience, Remembrance and Compassion edited by Azure Antoinette, Open Space’s the Literary Project Volume 6 (2021) and Fishtrap’s Fall 2022 Circle of Seasons.
