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♥


I started a go fund me to help pay for my MFA college tuition

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Hi Everyone,

Recently I was rejected for a scholarship that I was hoping would cover the last 3 credits (each credit in my grad program is $1,000) of my graduate school requirements for this upcoming academic year. In addition to a tribal scholarship and a fellowship that helps fund my tuition, I will be possibly working two part time jobs this fall on campus to cover living costs. I can’t think of any other outside funding besides 1. The pocket change I get from selling zines or 2. Selling my car which I need to drive around the bay, and to and from Arizona.

As a graduate student in MFA program at Mills College I currently have a 4.0 GPA and was recently awarded a community collaborator award through my writing program. This award supports a proposed project in which I will be teaching 4-5 zine/writing workshops in the bay area primarily with the Indigenous community. And lastly, I will be working on my thesis which is also the manuscript for my first book of poetry.

I wanted to share the exciting news about my Community Collaborator award when I started the planning process but I felt it is necessary that I am not just sitting at home looking at my computer all day during the school year. I will be extremely busy with school, work, working on my Community Collaborator project in the bay and finishing my book. If could fit in a full time job I would to help pay for my classes but it does not seem possible with extra projects and a 14 credit hour load this semester.

Every little bit helps even the costs of cup of coffee $3.00 will get me closer to finishing my book and receiving my Master of fine arts in creative writing.

Also, as a thank you, if you make a donation of $50 or more I can send you all four of my zines as a big thank you.

Thank you for your time and consideration upon reading my email.

Warm Regards,

Amber McCrary

Below is the link to submit a donation.

Self portrait as a Saguaro



Sometimes I feel like you
A flowering hosh, has:an, saguaro
Breathing in the rocky sand

A bright, boiling star eyes my waxy, sprinkled skin
I look at you and I can feel the prickled
Toothpicks stand on my skin
Just like when I see the hosh of my eye

I feel like you before the monsoons
Restless in the heat
Ready for the rain
& the new year

Seeing relatives pick off
My blooming fruit
For years longer than something called a nation state
Whatever that is

Sometimes I see you leading
Me to other hosh older
Than the state of Arizona
Standing taller than the
Politicians looking like over watered prickly pear
With pricks spilling out of their mouths
Poking and bleeding out
Letters with no song

Sometimes I feel like you
seeing freeways being built
over my relatives and friends
Feeling the rivers dry in my spine

My belly unfull
In the heat
The magnificent heat
Under my weight
I am protected beyond the laws
By something stronger
Something laws cannot govern

When I see you
My belly is full
& the rain clouds appear
Bustling, dripping, rested


♥Japanese Breakfast- Essentially♥


Long thoughts on life in the sky between Phoenix and Oakland

Must I art?

What if I decide to unart?

Live the life

Of a model minority

Not fucking up shit

Not breaking one’s toxic masculinity

Not writing

Not crying

Just surviving

Taking nice pictures

And looking clean

Brushing my hair

Pores are flawless

Dark circles are caked and concealed

Not being moody

Living that so called “Instagram life”

20 pounds ago

Little brown girls would tell me

I could quit my job and be a “model”

I tell them “thanks, I don’t want to do that”

They would look at me confused

20 pounds later I see my grandma

The first thing she says is “wow! You gained weight”

I then show her a poem I wrote about her hanging in a museum

She reads it and laughs

That’s the end of that story

No bitterness

I like being pudgy

It’s kind of nice to be left alone on public transportation

And I don’t feel like I have to live up to the stares from men

My partner tells me he likes me just as I am

I smile and try to believe it

I smile and try to tell myself the same

I debate if I should start exercising

I think if I was skinnier would he love me more?

I know it’s true for the men in my family

Proper weight equals proper love

Shallow cycles swirl around me

But I believe my partner because I feel it

And I feel good

In my newer older body

With its slowed down metabolism

My validation doesn’t need anyone’s attention

My livelihood lives on my words

Not my growing double chin

Or dresses in my closet that don’t fit anymore

Getting older is weird

Having an older body is weird

Shit is gonna Start shutting down soon

My memory is already becoming shit

It’s kind of scary

Scarier than blacking out

Another odd part about getting old

Is going sober

It’s been two and half years that I have not woke up hungover

Cheers to that

Going sober is weird

Telling people you don’t drink is weird

Telling natives that you’re sober is almost like a myth

Finding a male partner that is educated , doesn’t drink and doesn’t cheat on their girl is like finding Sasquatch then dating him

It’s that rough out there for us native women

Because most of us are guilty for falling in love with a bottle that likes to lie and cheat their way through life

Most of us stay  in situations where we pay the bills and become mothers to boys that don’t know how to tie their own damn shoes

Most of us have to lie to ourselves everyday that love is supposed to hurt

Love is supposed to feel broken

If our mother and grandmothers could do it so can we

We tell ourselves

Our broken pieces always been temporary held together by broken promises

“I won’t do it again”

“It’s the last time I promise”

I smashed those excuses a long time ago

But worth still comes knocking

What is a complicated native woman to a native man’s fantasy of normalcy?

Yes it’s too much to ask

But what do I want?

I get to choose

This is the privilege of my generation

This is the privilege of breaking a cycle

This is the gift I give to myself

This is a foundation

My kids will have to

Not live with an angry land

And a broken man

My grandma thinks all men are trash

Every man around her drinks

So I could see her view

Her husband was stabbed in a lonely alley in phoenix 31 years ago

Something we never talk about

and don’t let go

My mom thinks half of men are trash

Her husband doesn’t drink but her son

Comes home with x’s in his eyes everyday

I fear the same for my future

A husband that doesn’t drink

But a son that will stay with us well into his 40’s with a bald head to match his bald liver

If I fear my future how can I keep going?

That’s just what being a native woman is I guess