IF YOU ASKED ME WHAT A CHAMORU DREAMS ABOUT, I WOULD ASK YOU WHAT KIND.

An off-island CHamoru
dreams of plastic jugs filled to the brim with
pickled mangoes and papaya.
Freshly made titiyas, both flour and månha.
On summer nights, niyok cut with a machete
husked, cracked, and free.

We dream of ocean waves flowing onto sand,
morning glory vines caressing grains,
a water so clear and warm,
you would scoff at California shores.
Winter nights that lead to day dreams of Talofofo,
swimming in waterfalls between jungle.

But I’d say any kind of CHamoru dreams
of jungle trees overflowing with noise,
filled with birds greeting us every morning.
Of fresh water running through our sinks.
We dream of towering palms and short chiku trees.
I remember the starfruit growing outside
of my grandmother’s house, and we’d dream of that too.

Our nånas would rest and they’d dream like we do.
Their gardens overflowing
with åbas, with lemmai, with mångga —
latte stones would become immovable, unlike pillars,
and more like god.

In our dreams, kids run and tell their nånas
how their day went—tongue pronounced perfect.
They’d go to school, turn to each other
and speak in native tongue, relishing in
what we’ve made, grown, birthed.

We’d learn to weave, teach ourselves
how to speak with our ancestors.
CHamoru village, where our nånas dance,
would overfill every Sunday,
terracotta dance floor birthing living grace.
Every song would be in CHamoru and with
music like ocean, would never run out.

But most of all, more than any taotao tåno’ could wish,
land would be ours and only ours
because we already know what our land is worth,
much more than anybody else could tell us.