The Where in My Belly
BY KIMBERLY M BLAESER
Scientists say my brain and heart are seventy-three percent water,
they underestimate me. A small island, minisi, I emerged from
Minnesota’s northern lakes, the where of Manooman wild rice in
my belly, I am from boats and canoes, and kayaks, from tribal ghosts
who rise at dawn, dance like wisps of fog on water. My where is
White Earth nation and White Pine forest. I grew up where math
was canasta, where we recited times tables while ice fishing at
20 below. I am from old medicine barks and teas, from early, the air
damp with cedar, the crack of a myth, beaver tails on water,
their echo now a warning to where, to where fish become
a percentage of mercury, become a poison statistic, to where
copper mines back against a million blue acres of sacred boundary
waters, a canoe aerial wilderness. I am from Nibi and Ogichidaakwe
women warriors and water protectors, from seed gatherers, the wet
where pulse in my belly whispers and repeats like the endless chant
of waves on ledgerock, waves on ledgerock, on ledgerock, on waves on water,
Nibi
Miigwech