Invocation

Raven rises

as evening does

     hooked by arcs of flight

          light seeping

As justice circles

Cycles in its own

     time and gods hand

Now, it says

An invocation

A prayer prayed

     and answered

for these times

This now, this place

of peace and pieces

of bone scattered

     in supplication

for relief of suffering

suspension

     between

ground and grace

grief and mercy

      and goodness

‘bring me home’

‘bring us home’

Nearly one year--almost to the day--that Raven was finished, He was sent to his new home, a heart that He'd found when I first posted Him on Facebook.

For those who don't know the story from last year:

This work, like Ariel, is directly tied to my work around MMIW. In my world, in the current circumstances, yellow is justice. And when Raven showed himself in this form last week my mind went to the the Haida story about Raven, being the curious (and bored) one followed the sound of a noisy clam shell after the great flood revealed it. He pecked and prodded and knocked it around, finally opening it and letting out from the shell, the first people. It is my hope that my work pecks and prods and knocks around the right systems to reveal the hidden first peoples buried under the ground and reveals the systems that perpetuate their exploitation and murder.

Raven has gone home and I am making another focused effort to bring the bones of murdered women home.

The renewed effort comes on the tail of three otherwise otherwordly but entirely earthbound experiences that reminded me how truly bound, chained even, to this unfolding I am. During a pilates session two weeks ago, I trembled as the earth erupted through me, through those women wrapped around my spine, and brought me back to bodies, to the prayers of the bones buried in the Lolo National Forest, just west of Missoula, Montana. Now there are three; four years ago there were two.

A few days later, in an experience reminiscent of the one in November 2020 when I was introduced to Marco and Christina on BLM land outside Cortez, the waters pulled me to more remains in Northern Wisconsin:"We're here, too. Come."Pulled through through roots of rice and remnants of Old ways, the living waters flowed through my own breath, "Come."

Then, someone I've known only for a short time, woven back into my path by the hand of mysteries, and I began sharing visions and, in the time of utter exhaustion when I couldn't hold space for the rattlings of Old Men who want me their way, she received what I

At the end of last week, I got a text from a respected woman from Ft. Berthold. She'd reached out asking me to give my time and energy to help access a 'more important' long-dead woman. The woman who draws breath is esteemed for her work that weaves modern journalism and indigenous communities. And, in the work related to the dead woman in question I'm trusted, despite my whiteness. However, what opens doors and questions regarding this particular dead woman, slams it shut when we begin talking about those murdered in the modern era.