he is all shrugged shoulders when we talk about the future and he’s shrugging off sacrifices in a way i cannot fully understand because what do you mean when you say you’d lay it all down at my feet like some ancient goddess of war and you’re laying all the weapons soaked in your own blood at my feet.
because what do you mean when you’re on your knees and i stand perfect in imperfection on cracking pedestals bewildered. and it’s just like ok but what do you mean that you could watch me dance for hours?
what is this feeling that lives inside my throat right beside fish bones and butterflies?
forever scared that behind the crystals and cowboy hats and faded tattoos and thrift store silver that you’ll see what you’re buying and have to make a frantic late night return.
miley cyrus said she came in like a wrecking ball but that isn’t quite right because you came in like guerilla warfare but you took no prisoners and the shield wall around your heart opened and how many times now could we have gone in for the kill but we don’t.
you’ve got an easy laugh to go with those shrugged shoulders.
and i laid my weapons and skulls and scalps at your feet too.
yeah, i did. i got better and stepped into my power and stayed in my lane and really they just hate to see a fucking girl boss winning don’t they? some people would rather you be miserable because misery loves company and people love acting like crabs in a bucket.
some people want you broken because they’re broken and it helps them feel less alone. some people see someone stepping into the unknown and they feel left behind and it makes them nervous, anxious.
it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.
it’s not really my business what people say about me behind my back, that’s their cross to bear, their load to carry, heavy words and heavier thoughts, beasts of burden all.
i cant hear you over the sound of the drums on my path. i cant hear you over the sound of gunfire in my blood. cant hear you over the sound of a shitty truck driving full speed on the highway and i am rattlesnake and roadway.
i got better. clawed my way through, tore my clothes and ripped my hair and broke all my nails but here i am. i crawled out of sweatlodge a year ago and haven’t looked back and some people just won’t understand but i left behind the girl i was in the womb of the sacred earth mother and came out as a woman.
stopped wearing makeup
stopped shaving
stopped centering men
stopped taking burdens that aren’t mine
stopped being desperate for friendship
stopped accepting crumbs when i paid for a meal
stopped tolerating
stopped
a woman standing in her power and her grief and her rage scares those who are weak of spirit and my lineage survived the war and the reservation and the bottle and ive survived worse than a community theatre who took me for-granted. so fuck them. i don’t darken doorsteps of places who have to have meetings about if id be allowed to come there, debating my humanity like some kind of bureaucratic weather report.
i don’t go where im not wanted and i don’t beg people for friendship.
you can take me as i am or get the fuck out.
i survived the hospital room where my father died of the fucking flu.
i survived a man trying to kill me and i faced him down and prepared to go down like a warrior and he died and i didnt. warrior is in my blood.
im no expert im still learning and im just a student in this forever academy of learning but i walk my best in my tallest shoes to come through in a good way with good intentions.
forgive me if you can or dont.
i havent always been this way and im sorry i didnt always walk tall or come with my best. i was sick but im better now.
i cant wait for the things to come, to dance and grieve and live life tall for those who came before who couldn’t.
you changed, they say.
yes i did.
i had no choice, it was change or die.
goonies never say die.
and what do we say to the god of death?
not today.
not today.
o death. o death.
won’t you spare me over for another year?
i keep death guessing.
and you can keep fucking guessing too.
and i will howl to the heavens and scratch this manifesto on a truck stop mirror with turquoise rings on my fingers and blood under my nails and the ancestral woman’s song on my lips.
there is an old anishinaabe legend of how the birch tree got its black marks.
i will tell you as it was told to me.
many many years ago, when the earth was still young, in a time that could be called the dream time or the time before time, it was very cold and the world was freezing. nanaboozho lived with his grandmother in a little hut and it was terribly cold. grandmother told him of the great thunderbird village in lands to the west where they were always toasty and warm. nanboozho decided one day to go and visit the great thunderbirds, the crackling sky gods who emitted fire and lightning from their feathers and claws. nanaboozho disguised himself as a tiny rabbit, a wabooz, and hopped his way to the home of the thunderbirds, which was toasty and warm.
he came to their village and plead with them to allow him to warm himself by their great fire. the thunderbirds agreed, taking pity on the small rabbit. that night, when the thunderbirds slept, nanaboozho snuck to the fire and rolled around in it and caught all of his fur on fire and quickly fled from the thunderbird village, racing through the forest to bring fire back to his grandmother, to the freezing village. the thunderbirds awoke and enraged, rushed to pursue the little rabbit, knowing they had been tricked.
the thunderbirds took to the sky, screeching their rage and threw lightning at nanaboozho who fled as fast as his little legs could carry him.
“help! naadmawshin!!” he called into the forest and it was the proud birch trees with their pure white bark that answered him.
“come nanaboozho, hide under us and we will keep you safe”
and nanaboozho took shelter under the branches of the birch trees as the thunderbirds rained fire from above scorching the pure white bark of the birch.
the thunderbirds eventually tired of their pursuit because throwing fire is hungry work and they retreated back to their village.
nanaboozho brought fire back to his grandmother and to the people so they could warm themselves. and from then on, the birch trees have carried those scorch marks from the thunderbirds, a reminder of what they gave to shelter a little rabbit and to give warmth to the people.
sometimes, i think about this story, because i think about scars and i think about the ones we carry, some of us, memories of a great battle, but sometimes the battle is one we fight within ourselves.
hospital vespers 