House of Obsidian
We were forced to kneel before a cross
of rusted nails and painted blood.
And they made us pray for our health
so that we could birth less Heathens
and more Catholics.
But before they crossed the oceans
We were autonomous.
And our ancestors were making potions
We could cultivate life
knowing that the first breath is the threshold
Life and Death.
I have to remind you that it was
white men in black robes who tried to claim the land
like it was my body
and my body like it was the land.
Maybe because we are both
rolling, resolute, rhythmic. Rebellious.
And it is white men in black suits who
say my choice is a sin
is their sharpest blade.
I’ve learned to dull it with my teeth.
In our legacy of apothecaries,
Wisdom has been muted.
The intimacy formed with root relatives,
The peace we allowed ourselves to have,
knowing our bodies are in our hands,
I still allow myself to walk through liminal spaces,
to befriend ancient knowledge.
Not because I was given permission
but because my being requires it.
The freedom to choose exists in ourselves,
not in books penned by men,
or the jealousness of gods.
That is why settler philosophies fall around me
like defective shells.
The antithesis of our obsidian-charged bodies;
They do not work on us
because I am the master of this house
made of memories and stars from where we began.
And I love to disrupt unwanted guests’ plans.