Content Warning: Reference to death
My aunt ilchee will be here
long after the rest of us are gone.
The last Indian
after your feds get fed up with us,
let the salmon die out,
turn us all into quiet history.
The children of your children's children
will meet her,
walk past her,
and say, “Hey, look, it's Sacagawea!"
then go on their way.
My aunt ilchee was once accused of murder.
A son gone too soon,
a false accusation,
her husband had another wife.
She ran to skichutxwa (Vancouver as you know it).
Now she's frozen there,
staring out at imaɬ,
the big river whose shoreline you follow,
where you stop to tie your own running shoes.
Who's the real murderer?
Does it matter?
We won't be here to tell her story,
our story,
any story.
It'll only be you and a statue.