i have been cutting my own hair for the last five years.
a mixture of being too poor to pay a professional
and my own sort of mourning ceremony.
sometimes i laugh at the ridiculousness of all of this:
top curated list of all the shit i try to avoid
as i scroll down my newsfeed. a well-manicured 24/7 eulogy.
there’s an untold origin story about the bodies of halfbreed girls;
we are where the world begins and ends. we are more muskrat than girl.
i trace the words i will never say to you into the thin air
with the tip of my tongue –
never able to tease out the fact
that you’re more unstable than a cutbank.
at grandma’s there’s a hill
where my brother used to bury dead birds
my family named the hill after me.
i need to ask aunty if this is a part of my creation story.
underneath my skin you can follow
my veins like skidoo trails
back to where my first ancestor laid her head.
under your skin the path is much less traveled.
this world could start again.
you seem to forget that you’re not the centre of where this earth comes from.
you’re not even a mark on her surface.
i am scared that if i let my hair grow long
i wont be able to hide that this body of mine is more story than physics;
full of feathers and tadpoles.
i keep meaning to ask you
what it’s like to be a bear berry.