Poem: My Culture is Queer

My culture is not just a bead,
A feather,
Or a braid,

My culture is queer,
Mr. and Mrs. all dressed up in one,
Queerifying Indigenous beauty,
Queerification of decolonization,
Is just sweet purification,
Of a disgusting rhetoric of genderization,
By the dying man on the cross,
Who probably wouldn't judge me,
Sin me up,
But love me as is,
As I show up,
As the Creator made me up,

Squeegee the toxicity from the spirit-body-mind,
Sgueegee the picture perfect gender role that is diabolically lost in the transmitter,
We've learned to defer and detract the self and potential,
Which is inherently and intrinsically incorrect,
Wrong answer,

My culture is queer,
And this means the elder who knows the culture smiles at me,
Honors me,
Not wanting to hide me or better yet,
Tell me to hide myself,
Instead she walks past me and says,
"Come sing with me,"
And we sing,
So sweetly,

My culture is queer,
And I am not shamed,
This body flowing completely and beautifully,
This voice not suppressed,
The community healing,
Because we see each other,
Not old roles,
Not colonized roles,

My culture is queer,
And truthfully this might include a bead,
A feather found in the woods while praying for Two-Spirits to be who they are,
While hiking,
While singing,

My culture is queer,
And this might be the braid,
Or braids,
Or unbraided,
Decolonizing fine strands,

My culture is queer,
Brought to you by support from the ancestors,
Near a tree,
Listening attentively,
As you pray with tobacco,
As you offer your heart.