Dear Inuk: A Poem

It is no accident —

Your cheeks are shaped to

fill cupped hands,

that your laugh is as resonant

as the box drum,

if your legs take the shape that

the tundra gave them, or if

years of challenge mean you

love too hard.

If your People’s language still echoes

even when you speak another or

that your skin holds the memory of

every Elder’s hug.

Dear Inuk.

It is no mistake that you are both loud and quiet

because the land is loud and quiet.

You are as accidental as the aġviq

having baleen to catch its food.

 

April, 2020

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