Poem: Domestic Violence Awareness is More Than a Month

Colonial hands reached into the pockets of the young Native girl,
To take her money and she bought her way out of the rez,
To the curbside for work,
Banging on the door when it was locked,

This rez you know there is a lot of violence here,
Every place I lived the previous tenant was abusive of some sort,
That's poverty on the rez,

There was no job to be found anywhere on this land,
Especially for a young Native girl,
Banging on the door when it was locked,

What is culture on the rez if there is violence,
On the rez we left because were "not here half of the time,"

If she turned to what she was given,
This was unsafe,
Even in groups that stated she was safe,

Injustice swallowed in a meal meant for healing,
It was very cold,
And then a crisis came,


One billion rising on February 14th 2013,
And she couldn't rise,
From her house,
And she couldn't rise,
Under the dim light,
Under the bad wiring and flicking lights,
And she couldn't rise,
With snow falling upon the rez,
And she couldn't rise,
Because serving him and healing him became internalized,

This is not traditional,
Patriarchy is not traditional,
Subtle control of her spirit is not traditional,
So she lost herself,
In the maze of injustice,
In making the call,
And she couldn't rise,
Her body was frozen,
Back from the kitchen to the cold couch and to her room,

Healing prayers,
Tucked into corners,
Cleaned from corners,
Folded into clothes,
As she was ignored,
And remember why she couldn't rise.