Here, ginger
is the belly of a piglet
to scratch and feed; we eat
sage blossoms
and caught fish.
The roots here are burdock
from burrs, though our elders
have planted dahlias into nativity,
splitting fingers from the bulb’s fist
to grow a next generation
whose horses will swim
across Ukequiesa
to the fields on the far side.

Here, I am given quahog shells
for my anise seed,
the felt of my borage leaf.
It is a sign of alliance,
not the value of the flowers
that grow, bodegold.

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