Montezuma Cypress, Abram, TX 2019

by Emmy Pérez

-with thanks to Another Gulf is Possible / Rio Bravo Action Camp

Community journeyed to water  

the 900-year-old cypress, 

here well before starred and striped

flags rippled this side of the sky. 

Community walked south 

on the dirt road to the levee, 

carrying water and native seed bundles,

and entered the opening in the decade-

old wall.

A helicopter 

hovered

  bailed

and returned

as expected.

-Why are we here today?

-We’re here to water the tree!

-Why are we here today?

-We’re here 

to water the tree!

Some palms rested on the trunk

affirming arrivals

as a duo sang 

in their native tongues.

It wasn’t a performance,

nor did any, many native 

to these lands,

pass through the wall 

with the entitlements of tourists—

 some slowly, with a light wind shearing 

sweat and tears. After all, 

we are made from

river water and other earth-

aquifers         

rushing from our pores back to world.

We fluid people, certainly surveilled,

      watered the tree 

in so-called 

No-Man’s Land

between river bank and wall

where distributaries are chalk outlines

as if the river ghosted the land. 

Folks poured water—gallons—

seeping in,

sang aloud or in themselves,

releasing promises and prayers, 

then gathered to lift a banner 

painted the day before

in consultation with the Esto’k Gna:

Our Roots Break Your Walls 

and walked single file with the banner

raised above heads

back through the vehicle opening 

slated for a gateby administrations

always trying to sealtheir barriers’ mouths,

walls that won’t stop

national hysteria fanned

by suits 

framing people 

whose ancestors

have always gathered around

rivers and trees, sand and creeks,

volcanic rock and snow,

have harvested

amaranth, barley, 

maíz, teff, millet, 

quinoa, bulgur,

spelt, rice

and more  

for millennia.

May our histories, she-stories, 

they-stories 

live forever,

which is to say as long as

the earth spins with people,

and I do believe that energy

cannot be destroyed,

that stories carry on 

like water 

encoded with its origins

for billions of years 

and with traces of our inevitable 

loves and failures.

Thirsty, we search the tree’s secrets, 

how to drink water through osmosis,

search for unpolluted groundwater,

and how to thrive with new leaves after rain

chased by sun. This cypress

 still disseminates seeds, has lived long 

before colonizers could claim 

its shade or limbs. This elder survives

genocides—survives. Life surges

in the roots, in the healthier 

branches, in the leaves, in the wind 

scattering the seeds and inner movements

that blossom around its trunk

beyond surveillance where 

we water our global hearts.