The Rite of Fertility
And under that Hunter Moon on a fateful night
You gave me that chunk of flesh, an offering to make it right.
So I drew that circle of runes - the Sturgeon, the Wolf, the Buck,
Let my native blood spill and dry, to you, my blight.
You stuffed my mouth with belladonna, told me to swallow,
You said it was lavender, no need to fight.
I tied myself to the center with his milky white rosary beads,
And he reminded me not to struggle to not suffer his white man might.
He dropped to his knees and whispered into my throat,
"You know for an Indian, you're pretty tight."
And he split me in two, to excise the waste,
All that excess oil and moon witchery, yet he still took a bite.
Rib to rib, tainted skin to skinless taint,
He ate and ate and ate with no end in sight.
Then there was nought left but bones and moonlight and my rattle,
And yet Zhiishiigwe remained, to hunt onwards in the endless night.
By Caden Wiles
Biography:
Caden Wiles is a queer, indigenous poet who consistently writes about the intersection of identities within the white world. His works have been featured by Sheepshead, The University of Wisconsin-Madison, and more. Currently, Caden is seeking to get his masters in creative writing while teaching students the joys of poetry.
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