Surviving California
O California, tell me,
what has been buried
beneath you?
: My ancestral bone
and tongue and your veins
that I string like beads
around my neck.
Here on the mountainside
I am draped in your fibers,
I am listening for your voice
on the wind, where I once
thought I heard you whisper.
O California, I stood
at the podium you erected
but no one listened to my song.
Is my throat no longer the incubator
of your rock-slide voice?
Am I no longer your reparations
puppet? If I could survive it,
I would gather my things:
acorn mush and basket hat
and bundle of juncus drying
on the dash of my Ford Fiesta.
If I could survive it, I would dig
my history from your chest,
California, I would pull it warm
and beating from this ground.
Would I not have then seized my own
breast? We are made from the same soil.
O California, I know you hear it too.
The way the poppies rustle
in the wind, they sound like a chorus
of breath. My people are inhaling,
California. My people are opening
their mouths to sing.
Copyright © 2026 by Emily J. Clarke. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 10, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“As an enrolled member of the Cahuilla Band of Indians who grew up in Southern California on my tribe’s traditional homelands, my work often explores historical trauma through the lens of contemporary tribal survival. This poem navigates the conflicting emotions of betrayal and belonging that arise from living on lands where my ancestors fought for survival. Ultimately, the poem becomes a call to action—one centered on reclamation, resilience, and the enduring connection between Indigenous people and their ancestral lands.”
—Emily J. Clarke
Emily J. Clarke
