I would like to read
the kind of books that do not whisper,
but speak in rivers and ash,
in treaties folded thin as winter blankets,
in names the maps tried to forget.

I would like to read
An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States,
to turn each page like lifting a stone
and finding beneath it not silence,
but footsteps👣
thousands of them👣 👣 👣 👣 👣
still warm.

I would like to read
Trails of Tears,
and learn how a road can be made of grief,
how a nation can be carried
in the bodies of children,
in the stubborn seeds sewn into exile.

I would like to read
The Earth Shall Weep,
so I can hear the land remember itself,
so I can know the sound
a continent makes
when it is wounded
and still breathing.

I would like to read
The Wisdom of the Native Americans,
to sit at the long table of voices🗣️ 🗣️ 🗣️
Ohiyesa, Red Jacket, Chief Joseph, Chief Seattle🪶 🪶 🪶
and listen as words become shelter,
as speeches become rivers
that refuse to dry.

These are not books I want to finish.
These are books I want to be changed by.

I want to read
until history loosens its grip on lies,
until the past steps forward
and says its true name,
until I understand that learning
is another word for remembering.