when you read to us, will you use that voice we like?
the educated-but-still-rez voice that puddles by our
feet at the end of each sentence,
makes us feel safe as we rest our soles
on it’s upturned face–
before you read to us, will you introduce your people?
will you guide a flight of goosebumps up our arms as
you use your mouth to mold white guilt into the
mallet we hide behind our backs? it feels so good to let
you remove our tongues. they were like jelly in our
mouths anyway. will you read those poems we like?
the ones that remind us of movies,
your drugged-out cousins as the extras.
we like the one where your dead sister is the star.
we like the one where the white-man gets scalped.
you should stop reading about your ex boyfriend.
you should stop reading about the roadkill you
find smashed into the freeway
and that time your sister cut her hair
and hid it in the fisher price kitchen.
don’t forget, this is a safe space.
don’t forget, this is our safe space.
try telling us about your aunties
and how poor they were at your age.
we might like that.
you could tell us that they ate rats to survive,
you could say, they bathed in the hot springs,
walked miles just to dip their blistered feet
into sacred waters.
you could say,
this poem is for them, my aunties and my sister
and my drugged-out cousins. say,
when i read to you, i become them. say,
achama. thank you. thank you for being here.
for putting your hands inside my felt throat
and teaching me how to read these stories
already branded into my bones.
