The bones, too. Eat the bones too. Eat the leaves of strawberries; do not bite the fruit off and throw the rest away as if the plant grew itself with the intention of being easier for human hands. Soft salmon vertebrae melting into my jaw like warm chalk, and taking bitter green with the sweet… Continue reading Bones
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… Continue reading Red Rising Magazine: Land, Language and Decolonial Love
If you knew how proud they are that you made it to the age of 16 21 twenty-five 30 thirty-six age 10. in this province built up on the devastation of universes and bodies like ours you might never feel lonely again. The next time you wonder if life is easier outside of all your dark-hair, dark-sky… Continue reading For northern girls
As the doctor empties a third needle into my face to temporarily freeze the colonial eye twitch I’ll endure the rest of my life, she chirps, “It’s great that you started this procedure so young: you’ll never get wrinkles!”
Poetry gives me freedom, sometimes. Sometimes forces me into shapes, corners, feminities that are stunning, suffocating And deliciously dishonest. Once I said I wanted my writing to taste good served with misâskwatômina, like sweet berries. Like the only way Native women are valuable is when we are consumable. Pretty. Sweet. But the problem is my writing smells more like… Continue reading miwasin
Content Warning: attempted sexual assault; Indigenous Feminist anger that cuts like the lead riff in “The Trooper” My optimism wears moccasins and is loud. My optimism sometimes wears moccasins and is always loud. As a Nehiyaw girl growing up in a small prairie city in Canada, I got into punk, hard rock, and metal music… Continue reading My Optimism Wears Moccasins and is Loud: On Paris, Heavy Metal, and Chasing Freedom
Shame is the reaction requested when they look you in the mouth and say, “lost her language”, but I know language well enough to pinpoint each time it's lost instead of stole,
and that my shame alone cannot build homes or sustain bodies.