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timers and curfews.

i find myself,

starting to hate timers.

why?

i'll never know.

well

actually

do.

as you wrap your

arms around my waist,

i feel my body shiver;

twitch.

i feel the concept

time start to become

the least of my worries...

images of what we could do

while frank ocean plays,

flash in my

perverted mind.

my breathing quickens.

your hands trail further.

my body leans in closer.

i respond with a soft sigh.

and there it is.

that god awful.

timer.

to ruin our moment.

we awkwardly say goodbye.

i roll over as you drive away.

and i lay,

and think,

"maybe another time."

maybe i'm just bad at acting on affection.

the song i listened to today:

must i make the choice to be fe/male?

is it not enough to be formed of the same flesh as

the buck who died for someone’s dinner

or their laughter?

i’m from the ground up

hooves and teeth and all

it doesn’t matter how i make

not like it matters to you

must i make the choice to tell you my name?

is it not enough to be wrought of the same iron as this knife?

cutting away flesh

strip by strip

to feed or to flush you out

either way by laika wallace

#gender poetry #two spirit #native poet #transgender #trans #intersex #my poetry

From “Elemental Gratitude” by Eric Gansworth in the June 2018 Native Poets issue of Poetry.

[image: First image is a drawing of a round plaque mounted on a stone wall with a fish or an eel curled in a circle and eating its own tail, encircling an image of a purple human figure with concentric red hearts. Below the plaque is a pool of water and a small fire; above it, a lightning storm can be seen through a hole in the wall. Second image is a drawing of two people in profile looking to the right. There are what appears to be atomic or celestial models in the top right and lower left corners. Above the people, a brain is split open down the middle like a geode and a string of steam or smoke connects the two halves. Top right above the brain is text that reads, “The Corpus Callosum allows for communication between the seat of reason and the land of DREAMS.”]

#poem #poetry #poetry magazine #poetry foundation #Elemental Gratitude #Eric Gansworth #visual poetry #visual poem #native poet #native poets #tuscarora nation #onondaga

Look, I’m sure you really do just want to wear those dream catcher earrings. They’re beautiful. I’m sure you don’t mean any harm, I’m sure you don’t really think abt us at all. I’m sure you don’t understand the concept of off limits. But what if by not wearing a headdress in yr music video or changing yr damn mascot and perhaps shouldering the .05% of personal annoyance for the twenty minutes it lasts, the 103 young ppl who tried to kill themselves on the Pine Ridge Indian reservation over the past four months wanted to live 50% more

from Nature Poem by Tommy Pico, published in The Offing

#indigenous peoples day #the offing #from the archives #poetry #tommy pico #kumeyaay #indigenous poet #native poet #native american #queer poet #lgbtq #poem #excerpt #quote #cultural appropriation #identity #representation

product by sarah stern

indige•zine ‘issue #1: #NoDAPL’

#indigezine #zine #indigenous art #Indigenous Resistance #NoDAPL #poetry #native poet

...to be the very last light gravity remembers...

Photograph of The Roaches in the Staffordshire Moorlands by @archaeologystudent

T H E T H I R D M E A S U R E P A U S E D & S E T T O Y O U R B R E A T H I N G

By Michael Wasson.

How might it feel to be a vessel of light? Like a moon held in the throat

of the sky—a cold pressing the lips enough to shatter the tongue

of any open mouth. Somewhere at the distance of centuries

your body could penetrate the skin of my eyelid like this

until the ceiling of the house burned away. Leaving me

& you on the bedspread—side- by-side—our bones never once touching

lost in orbit around tonight. I swallow what remains of the failing air

like a casket dissolving over a god’s awful taste

buds. So how might it feel, Lord— to live only behind

the teeth. Death pointing inward. The spine reaching

in both directions. The stars unraveling from inside

the head. How might it feel to be so vanished

that any movement is but a brief torch lighting

your scented ankles now gone—a smear of

fire ignited in some- body’s lost history. Lord

press your fingertips into me. Let me treasure

your touch enough to cave my ribs in. To crush me

so gentle now that I am made to be the very last light

gravity remembers.

Ah, beautiful. What a wonderful way to start the week; inspired by words all full of light.

#poetry #poem #poets on tumblr #Michael Wasson #native poet #books #reading #trees #photography #inspiration #writer #writing

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1fufzR3XNA)

#poetry #poets on tumblr #native #native poet

I've been through hell and back so many times that I hated being Indigenous, But that's the thing about being Native You aren't truly a Native American if you haven't experienced hating your own culture.

Dakota Rain

#Native American #Indigenous #Aboriginal #Native Poet #Native Appropriation #mythoughts