Two New Poems by Samantha Marie Nock

 

pākahamakew

you have to soak the elk hide overnight.

i have a stack of half-finished love letters
that i have written to my body
that all begin and end with the same word
i’m not sure if i’m apologizing to myself
or to someone else.

you have to work the hide to make it soft
rub it together and slap it on the side of the bucket.
be rough. be forceful. be gentle.
you will know when the hide is ready.
you’ll feel it.

i have worked my skin over
and over
and over again
waiting for it to be soft enough
to stretch over
my bones.

place the wooden frame in the middle of the hide
make holes around the outside so we can begin to prepare
to stretch elk tight.

i have plucked the hair
from my head
in order to thread needles
hoping to bead flowers onto my
arms
legs
stomach
trying to make them works of art

next you thread deer hide strips through holes
pull hard but be gentle
as you weave
over and under
deer is not as tough as elk
but it is strong enough to pull hide tight.
watch for tears.

i have been writing love letters to my body
that begin and end
with the same word.

let the drum dry for a few days in an open space.
watch hide become hard.
listen to hide become ceremony.

when do i become soft?

your first drum is never yours.
give it away.

hand made drums
Image by Samantha Marie Nock

 

love letters

i’m writing love letters to myself that say;

 

“when you take from the forest
remember to give
a piece of yourself back.”

 

i’ve been taking and taking and taking and…

 

there’s a simple exchange that happens
between black spruce sheets
under full moons
where eye contact is currency
and fingers entangle like nīpisiy*

 

“when you take from the forest
remember to give
a piece of yourself back.”

 

maybe i will leave a wasteland
where mitosak* and iyinimina* used to grow
and build a chain link fence
around the yellow grass square
in the middle of the city
and call it a day.

we find ourselves
in situations
with bare bark skin
be careful how much you peel from the trees
because you want to make sure
they will survive the winter
take only what you need
nothing more
nothing less.

i’m writing love letters to myself that say;

“when you take from the forest
remember to give
a piece of yourself back.
remember to give thanks.
lay down your hair
at the base of the pines
because you forgot tobacco
and you told yourself you’d quit smoking this morning
so you left them on the table,
so leave a strand of your hair at the base of the pines
and hope that this is proper protocol
because you took some med’cine from the forest
to give back to yourself to give back to the forest to give back
so when you return to the ground
you’re not leaving your
daughter’s daughter’s daughter
and chain link fence.”

we are exchanging intimacy like currency
because i’m not sure that
we know how to be perfectly vulnerable
anymore.
but i think this works.
just leave a strand of your hair
at the foot of my bed.

Northern Cree: nīpisiy – Willow
mitosak -Trees
iyinimina – Blueberries