The Weavers Were the First to Know

The invasion came like a whisper,
and the leaves changed shapes,
and the niyok grew sick.

Coconut trees,
our culture’s tree of life,
dying slowly
as invasive beetles
eat their hearts
like world powers
devour islands.

Weavers hold culture in their
palms,
weave tradition into their families,
tuck young palms
into their fingers,
mold them into
entities.

But now,
our culture’s tree of life
has grown ill from
foreign settlement.

Palms severed,
bent like a salute
the way Chamorros are cut like cards
and dealt in front lines of American wars.

The weavers were the first to know
that our niyok is
sick,
in need of healing.

The same way our island is
sick,
in need of healing.

I’ve taken up the craft,
so I can weave
traditions
into the palms of my children.

I can only hope that when
I master it,

palms will remain
for them

to weave into our future.

The Weavers Were the First to Know | Poetry