Clutched in cold hands
and freed to blue topographies
a sacred transmission pulses
as the light lowers
a bright chorus
metewintoq is heard singing
from night’s dark throat—

Each moment is a pearl
spat from shell
gesigawitgl
they flow swiftly—
into our depths,
where we divine the future
far from the closed
mouth of the
nacreous moon—

In the place of low light
wasoqonmeg we keep it lit—
the gleaming lantern
of every eye—
and fish trail stars on silk
as hope sways silver above us
on a sky that toqjua’t sipug
swims upstream.

 

(Editors’ Note: “The Sea-Witches at Nightfall” is read by Matt Peters on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 57B.)

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© 2024 Tiffany Morris