Dear Inuk

It is no accident —

Your cheeks are shaped to

fill cupped hands,

that your laugh is as resonant

as the box drum,

if your legs take the shape that

the tundra gave them, or if

years of challenge mean 

you love ‘too hard’.

If your peoples’ language echoes

while speaking another or

that your skin holds the memory of 

every Elder’s hug.

Dear Inuk.

It is no mistake that you are both loud and quiet

because the land is loud and quiet.

You are as accidental as the aġviq

having baleen to catch its food.