mother, i’m hurting mother, i’m hurt mother, i don’t know what to do mother, i’m storing all of the pain into the center of myself so when the carver chips at my skin it’ll take him the longest to find where it is mother, i’m healing mother, i’m healed mother, i found it right where i left it mother, i’ll write it mother, i’ll sing mother, i’ll burn it right to my skin it’ll give my the faith, the faith, that it’s there to find
There are two words I circled within a book once, spoken by Jenny Leading Cloud—mitakyue oyasin—”all my relations”— that recognizes man as just another animal in the universe, acknowledging other species as brothers or cousins. The English language lacks any such term; most humans have lost their connection to nature, viewing it as something to control and exploit. How do I cleanse those ancient colonial genes from my system? Try to run my blood through a sieve or something and hope they collect like parasites filtered from the soil. I imagine them squirming around helpless on the metal wire, each branded with the American flag. Home of the free I’ll say, while imprisoning them inside a glass mason jar. Store the specimens on a shelf somewhere for a day when I am feeling patriotic, which will never come, so they’ll continue to collect dust. Rotting away. Only to eventually die, all withered and dried out.
of something I have been working on. Inspired, finally.
“Nobody sees me like you do,” I say while perching her chin between my thumb and index finger.
She shifts from her elbow to lay flat on her back and continues to fidget with the grass, plucking pieces out from time to time, remaining silent. I can feel that she loves me, but there is a timidness within her swelling up like a balloon with nothing inside it. I watch her float away for a while. I imagine she settles between Mikata and Alintak. Becomes the fourth notch in the belt of Orion.
I eye her microscopically, lenses clicking as they shift into position, coming to rest upon her neck, her face. I watch her lips part and close hesitantly several times before she decides to speak.
“I wonder if the Moon ever gets uncomfortable with millions of eyes staring up at it all the time.”
We both meditate on this for a moment.
“Well, maybe thats why the Moon has so many phases,” I respond. “I mean, the name, ‘new moon’, it could symbolize something, you know? The face is turned towards the galaxies for a day or so, right? To the vast darkness. Providing relief. Only a short vacation, yes. But then… returns shyly as the Waxing Crescent.” I say while raising my arm to the sky, hiding the moon with my palm. Letting it slowly pass between each finger.
A smile crawls across her face, sidles up the corners of her mouth and tips into soft laughter, causing her abdomen to tremble slightly.
“You say it so matter-of-factly, like no other explanation will do.”