Massage my eyes, PLEASE! After ways I am tired by Fatima Asghar

How many times has someone uprooted my radicle?
Before meeting me?

My lover bleeds out asdzaa with a digging stick
To my spine, slices the kernels off
They fall on asphalt so hot
It can cook an egg
Or pop a corn

All my life I tried to forget who I am
And live like a bright clean canvas
Unstoried but well kept

I’ve sat in Chiang Mai train stations
And wait for love
in Nepali cafe’s
Tucked in thamel corners
From white men
Just as confused as I

Train after train
A leaf leaves
too fast for me hold it’s palm

My millimeter of root
Shuffles in the air like the fine hair
Of my arms and toes

A man sits across from me
Salivating with scissors in his hand
He wants to clip my tiny root
To forever hold in his palm

One day he will cash it in
To a museum or antiques roadshow
He will act like this pretty little root
Flew into his hands
Even tho conquer is carved into his eyeballs

I read about a native poet
Who keeps their place of origin a secret
And I don’t know who to trust anymore

I read about femicide suicide in El Salvador,
Mass shootings in chain stores,
And women with my face missing

I type
The only way to get my sadness out
Without migraines, nausea or stolen breath
Painting their pain in my body

Last weekend my lover and I went
Out for the First Friday artwalk
At the local native museum

They had a Boarding school exhibit
We walked through each room
Familiar as grandma’s shuffle and laugh

As we walk out the exhibit
A white women tells her white date
“My ancestor’s didn’t come to the states until the 40’s
They were not part of that”

If I had a cup of tea for every white person
Compromising their own part of American history that doesn’t involved genocide or racism
All their excuses in the world would not get me through
Morning tea, afternoon tea and tea parties with all my girlfriends
For the next 40 years

Somewhere a white lady tells her date
She never had no part in that
But yet here we are
In this nightmare

I turn on the TV to see an orange snake
Slither its tongue
I keep thinking it’s a dream

It is 2019 and there are still concentration camps
On our soil
There is still blood at the borders
I think of the babies, the mother’s feet
Heat and deserts

Then in sixty years a white woman will say
My ancestors were never part of “THAT”

I drink my lavender tea
And turn the lights off
Because it is not a dream
I blink my eyes
And I am still tired

♥Pixies- I’ve been tired♥

Published by asdzaabeat

Amber McCrary is a Diné zinester, feminist and writer. She was born in Tuba City, Arizona (Diné Bikeyah) and raised in the Reservation bordertown of Flagstaff, Arizona. In the small town of Flagstaff is where she discovered her love for Punk Rock and the Do it Yourself Culture. She received her Bachelor of Arts in Political Science with a minor in American Indian Studies from Arizona State University. She is currently an MFA candidate in the Creative Writing Program at Mils College. She enjoys many things in life such as tea, traveling, writing, reading, sulking, gardening, eating, smashing the patriarchy and learning about cultures and her own (Navajo/Diné). She currently lives in Oakland, California. Her work has appeared in Yellow Medicine Review, Bluestockings Magazine, Cloudthroat magazine, 580 split, Warship Zine and the Introduction to Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies: Interdisciplinary and Intersectional Approaches 1st Edition.

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