My body is made of absences,
of meaningless gender, of colonized
language, of unbearable things wrought
from servitude and kinship. My body

is an ocean of dark spots.

My skin reminds me of
inescapable histories, I am built from
ghosts, tongues ripped from mouth
so they could not hear us praying,

but I am still trying to anyways.

My sex is unbearable, both parceled witness
to violence and objectified desires, my legs
learn to open to emptiness, where these
parts of myself are made vulnerable, but

still I am not immune to rage.

I tempt the exploring tendrils of death,
they blush with their eyes made to suffer,
and I am contorting my wide body to ballets

of filament and feminized terror, wishing

to become a formless safety, equal parts
humanized and recognized. There must be
some term for it, when the broken-open
body gives way to forgiveness—becoming

a full mouth, capable of miracles.

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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