Mother says white people were once us.
She says they left, returned, that coming back
was the only thing on their minds,
before hurling herself at the sky
as if she was going to catch it,
touch the soles of God, grab a dead leg
and bring it back here, the opposite
of where a starved hawk takes its prey.
Ma says salmon know when their predator is near
because they smell themselves on its breath.
Like a hawk she leapt, my mother,
and if the world could turn upside down
her fingers would touch something,
someone’s son, daughter, mother, father,
and bring them back here among us again.