Blue Birds by Caroline Starr Rose

condemning myself.
    Since Mr. Florrie warned us
    of the Croatoan on the shore,
    I’ve kept Ambrose and Tommy inside for days.
    A bit of sun would do them good.
    I lead them to the empty square,
    far from the walls.
    Surely here we’re safe.
    They gather shells,
    laugh to watch
    them thud or skip
    across the ground.
    George marches to us,
    a musket at his shoulder,
    a knife tucked in his breeches.
    He sits back on his heels
    so he is level with the boys.
    â€œWhen you’re old enough
    I’ll teach you
    to aim those at the Indians,
    shoot them with a musket,
    bash in their brains.”
    â€œDon’t say such things!”
    I press the boys against my skirts,
    covering their ears.
    George smirks,
    his broken tooth catching his lip.
    â€œDo you think the Croatoan
    truly have forgiven us,
    that the Roanoke don’t know
    we meant them harm?
    Surely both hide in shadow
    just outside the village boundaries.”
    My heart turns over painfully.
    The man I saw this morning.
    It is just as George has said.
    How long will we be safe?
    Days ago,
    this boy wept openly.
    Now he seeks a chance to strike.
    I hope my words will reach the empty part of him.
    â€œYou must miss your father terribly.”
    For a flash he is unguarded,
    then a steeliness comes over him.
    â€œDon’t speak of him again,” he says.

KIMI
    Tonight,
    after our meal,
    the drums begin,
    the men approach,
    gourd rattles in their hands.
    â€œI saw a girl,”
    Chogan says.
    â€œNotched an arrow to frighten her.
    She fled like a rabbit.”
    Cold grips me.
    The men hold their rattles high.
    Drums pound in unison,
    lead the dancing men.
    We are here,
    their movements say,
    have been since the earth’s beginning.
    It is you Englishmen
    who don’t belong.

Alis
    Mother and Mrs. Archard have finished their work early.
    The afternoon is mine to do with as I please.
    â€œWhy you choose
    the heat outside
    is senseless,” Mother says.
    She doesn’t long to see everything about us,
    explore all that is unknown.
    But she understands this need in me.
    She lets me go.
    I am grateful
    for what I’ve been offered.
    Mother says I’m free to wander
    if I stay near.
    I stroll about the village.
    I lift my eyes to each station
    as I walk beside the earthen wall,
    running my hand along its sturdy side.
    My fingers find
    part of the structure has melted
    in last night’s rain.
    The Indian,
    his arrow,
    they make me hesitate.
    But the pull to go to Kimi,
    even stronger.
    This will be my way out.
    Behind me
    is a guardhouse.
    Before me,
    a group of men pass
    with boards over their shoulders,
    saws in hand.
    So as not to draw attention,
    I walk farther on,
    and once no one is about,
    I hurry back,
    pray the guards are focused elsewhere,
    and plunge my hands
    into the wall’s damp softness
    until I’ve widened
    the space.
    I escape.

Alis
    â€œGood day,” I say, when I see her.
    Kimi clutches my hand,
    touches my forehead,
    my heart, with our fingers intertwined.
    She slips my shoes upon her feet,
    stumbles in them
    like one new to walking.
    I unwind my plait,
    motion to her
    to fashion my hair like hers.
    Here
    I can forget
    all else,
    I can pretend
    this moment
    is how things always are.

KIMI
    Alis spins about,
    arms spread wide,
    so like Alawa.
    All I shared with my sister,
    what I’ve pushed away so long
    stirs to life within me,
    like an evening breeze,
    a bee in search of nectar,
    a gushing stream.
    I join her dance,
    the world a blur of colors,
    like the leaves that float at harvest,
    the memory of a dream.
    Together,
    we spin,
    fall to the earth in laughter,
    leaves clinging to our hair.

KIMI
    Her question I do not follow,
    but when she lifts her hand,
    one finger raised,
    I see the bird.
    It flies from branch to branch,
    as blue as the morning.
    â€œIacháwanes,” I say.
    Her lips move.
    â€œIa-chá . . .”
    She wants the word
    to be her