is a river running cold
into fields of squash and wheat,
my belly is gentle soil, upturned with
hands rejoicing in the rain that blesses them—
clear kisses from ancestors. I am white-capped
like snow and cedar, good medicine is stowed
in my hips, for they carry the earth.

My eyes are east-facing windows,
delighted in the morning sun that cleanses me
with prayers sent upwards.

My legs are grown from the ashes of a
painted woman, whose sons once fought monsters
on the earth, borne during a thunderstorm where lightning
scraped itself as oil paints of white across the sky.
With yucca leaves to insulate my feet, I would walk

thousands of miles to cross the bridges
to White Mountain, where upon the rocks of
my peoples’ birth,
the ghost of my grandfather will feed me
tiswin and rabbit meat.

By Moira J.


Moira J., or Gaagé Dat’éhe (Quiet Crow), is a mix’d Indigenous writer who explores the messy world of being agender, queer, and biracial. They explore sexuality, spirituality, trauma, displacement, and kinships in poetry, origin stories, and creative nonfiction. They have their Master’s degree in Mental Health Counseling. They currently live and write in Oregon with the support of their spouse, and the family pet: Dana Scully. Moira J’s work has been featured in Girls Get Busy zine, i-D Magazine, Toe Good Poetry, Naugatuck River Review, Bayou Magazine, and more. They have upcoming publications with Sea Foam Magazine and The Account. You stay updated on Moira J. by going to, or on Twitter @moira__j.

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