The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2011

Only 100 Words…*

…left, they say. 100 words of a language from

ancient people now vanished. Rammaytush syllables

wandering as orphans at the edge of Mission Creek:

ahnah mother

How do humans, born onto a fertile land

evaporate like fog rolling over hills?

Hummingbirds, trees, soil, and sun plentiful,

renewed each day without those

who walked among them?

meme to kill

Ohlone fishing and tracking,

collecting feathers of the eagle

living under the same sky we turn to now--

disembodied like echoes?

colma moon

One hundred words drifting on brass plaques

down a new cement sidewalk—King Street

homes that have no memory.

Not words on the stream that feeds the cove;

not on the wind as voices

drifting from father to child;

not as whispers

from friend to friend;

nor movement through the grasses

where lovers were hidden.

roretaon fire

Scholars and tourists taste the letters

on their tongues, searching for a combination

of sounds that will raise the dead

harwec to sing

Only 100 words remain, carved into brass,

a metal blend—the look of gold.

Brass the stuff of coins and steam ship fittings,

gears and locks—useful things of living.

Brass that shapes into musical instruments

through which all voices can be heard.

isha alive

*This is an art installation on the sidewalk in Mission Bay, a newly constituted neighborhood of San Francisco.

Jewelle Gomez