Red Rising Magazine: Land, Language and Decolonial Love

I wrote a feature for the November 2016 issue of Red Rising Magazine, a publication run by and for Indigenous people, based in Winnipeg.


On land and language:

Our languages and lands were made for love. We have wide skies, northern lights, and thousands of chokecherry bushes to duck behind. I know it’s taboo, but if you tell me you’ve never fallen for someone because of the passionate way they speak in the dark heat of a sweat lodge ceremony, you’re not going to the right lodges.

On desire and vulnerability:

As Indigenous people in colonial worlds, our vulnerability is non-consensually consumed and it is rarely ours to own. Daring to claim love and desire for Indigenous bodies in the face of ongoing colonialism is a liberatory act of vulnerability. Allowing love to flow beyond the edges of our skin (in the form of touch), our lips (in the form of language), and our eyes (in the form of tears) is necessary and radical in a world where we’re taught to believe those borders are impassable. So when we love each other, it is potent enough to heal the trauma and chase away the violence. So when we love it is wider than the prairies. So when we love, the bellies of our ancestors are filled with laughter and good food. When we love each other, pipelines shut down and borders open and logging machines jam.”

Read the full piece and support Red Rising Magazine here.


The work that we will continue to do will be relentless, and will hopefully inspire a new generation of Indigenous artists, thinkers, writers, and leaders in the community. Welcome to Red Rising. The time for our stories to be told is now!” – Red Rising Magazine Collective


feelingmoonyIt’s cute when we send each other pictures of the night sky, even though everyone knows they never turn out.

It’s cute when we waste evenings talking about lunar magic,
but let me get it out of the way and say:
you’re not the moon.

You’re the endless indigo everything holding up the milky way.

You’re the place where the moon feels safe enough to fall asleep
in the strangest cities, in unfamiliar neighbourhoods,

in the middle of nowhere,
after she’s had too much to drink.

You’re not the moon, no.
You’re the intoxicating infinity wrapping around like a blanket,
turning her mess of stars into a constellatory rest.

Those once-in-a-century full moons are nice,
but let me get it out of the way and say:
you’re the kind of inescapable darkness worth returning to every night —
inevitable and
painfully instinctive.