a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
mourning the loss of an old life.
As they grow they fix their gaze
away from me toward the rising sun.
Casting long shadows in the garden,
each leaf is a dark heart on the earth.
Ladybugs nest in their buds
and gorge on aphids to disturb the blooms.
Yellow finches devour leaves inside-out
until only the green veins remain.
Strong gold lights up a blue sky
but the roots are easily disturbed.
When unable to draw minerals upward
they bend their necks in despair.
Each one grows taller than people
standing sentinel, heavy with generosity.
Such ripe heads dense with new life
to be pried apart seed by seed by seed by seed.
*𐓨𐓣𐓰𐓪𐓟𐓧𐓣 (mi-to-e-li) is Osage for sunflower, or “like the sun, but not”
Aimee Inglis is a citizen of the Osage Nation born and raised in Anaheim, California, near the Santa Ana (Wanaawna) River, and is active with the Northern and Southern California Osage diaspora groups. She has worked in social movement organizations for housing and climate justice for fifteen years and is currently engaged in tending to the land and waterways, divination, songwriting, and poetry, and is an MFA student in Creative Writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts and a 2023 fellow with Indigenous Nations Poets. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Under a Warm Green Linden, Anaheim Poetry Review, and Poetry Northwest.