The night before the first phase of the inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women, I felt a lot of anxiety. As a result, I wrote this:
My sisters II
My heart laid quiet, untouched
And unturned in a street side gutter on stolen land and soiled
for 1181 days or more.
I lazed through days with my emptied-out chest as
My red dress hung limp on my tired bones
for years as if it were forgotten
on the rack of a second-hand store
in an emptied-out settlers’ town no one ever
Inquired about. It was later found on a dark Tuesday morning,
misshapen and murmuring- lit by moon-
by a lady who had never lost her heart before.
Plopped into my open hand, I took it home,
Washed it, waited, warmed it and waited some more.
Now it beats quietly beside my bed
and if I listen long and still,
I can hear it whispering its rhythms of returning home.