Thanksgiving in Kindergarten: Salt Lake City, Utah, 1996

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We grew up in a city named for water we could not drink.
Our ancestors walked for miles to find
a home that would not burn so easily,
then stumbled on salt, which meant preservation.

In 1996 we walked to Westbrook Elementary
past neighborhood dogs named Lobo
and Lamanite music spilling from one-car garages,
brass trumpeting on the asphalt.

When the teacher gave us feathers to wear on Thanksgiving,
I didn’t know about the Mountain Meadows Massacre,
or Mormon militias marching, meaning to baptize
Shoshone lands with the salt of the earth.

My father taught me to keep
my hands open, facing sky, expecting light.
He collected miracles like shells
and placed them at my feet.

I didn’t know yet

this land was holy before we arrived.

I didn’t know—
water we couldn’t drink could still cleanse.
A burning bush without a prophet
     could still heal.

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