Deja Seven Speaks

Deja Seven Speaks, age 47, a resident of Grannis, Arkansas, passed away on Sunday, December 21, 2025, at her home.
Deja was born on December 23, 1978, in Dennison, Texas. She enjoyed painting, writing, reading, going to the river, and spending time with her family. She was very spiritual and was an ordained minister. She was a very creative and talented woman.
Deja was preceded in death by her father, Billy Dean Speaks, and her first husband, Julio M. Carattini IV.
She is survived by her husband, Earl Evans, three sons and daughters-in-law, Jonah Carattini (Jessica Fiakle) from Watson, Oklahoma, Nathan Evans (Monica) of Cove, Arkansas, Henry Evans of Wickes, Arkansas; three daughters, Dalli Rain Evans of Grannis, Amy Evans of Grannis, and Brittany Bush of De Queen; nine grandchildren, two great grandchildren; two brothers, Skyler Joe Tanner of Watson, Oklahoma, Chandler Dean Speaks of Watson; two sisters, Jennifer Darby of Dallas, Texas, Jennifer Lyons of Utah.
A private Memorial service for Mrs. Speaks will be held at a later date.
Cremation arrangements by Wilkerson Funeral Home.
Song of Myself
By Deja Seven Speaks
I am of the old, rather than the new, I am foolish as much as wise,
Regardless of others, I show regard for others,
Maternal as well as paternal, for my child I am both,
Chalked full of grit and smoothed with the flow of time,
The culmination of many nations, micro chasm and macro chasm
entwined,
A rambler and a rooted tree, a host or guest my table is open
to all who wish to feed their bellies
down by the Cossatot I live,
A chameleon, I have made my own trade, my soul well traveled
on my soles I travel.
A gypsy walking the road – good and red or dark and steep,
Traditionalist or Revolutionary,
A traveler over lakes or bays or along coasts, the Columbian, the Pecos,
and the Red have washed my feet;
At home on the river banks, or with the trees,
or with the planters tilling earth,
At home in the concrete jungle, with sky scrapers puncturing the
heavens yawning and eternal,
At home with my feet slapping rhythm on soft trodden earth
or the hot cracked cement,
Tribe to the down trodden, tribe to the free thinker,
(loving a questioning nature)
A learner with the simplest, a thinker with the thoughtful,
An innocent blanched with the experience of all seasons,
Of every hue and being am I, of every rank and religion,
A farmer, mother, artist, lady, ruffian, saint, sinner,
Virgin, wanton, peacemaker, warrior, chief cook and bottle washer, stranger.
I open my arms to my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty for me,
My arms thrust wide- I know my place and I am in it.
(The stars and the rocks are in their place,
What I know, and what I do not lay on the path of my choosing,
What I can touch is beneath my fingers and what I cannot brushes my soul.)
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