Understand when I tell you
that I do not want your fucking money.
Money is a weapon
that white men wield
to feel powerful
and I do not aspire to be a white man.
Look around me;
I am rich.
Count the salmon scales
stuck to my skin
as I prepare the smokehouse,
the little feathers caught in my hair
as I work on geese,
the footsteps of all the dances to come
when the deer that feeds me
also gives me rattles for my apron
and all of the gracefulness contained
in its hooves.
There is no generosity in money.
What you call a resistance movement
is not about resistance at all;
my life is the reiteration
of an act of utter, joyful
to the wisdom of the higher laws
that guide me.
You got the movement part right, though.
Those deer hoof rattles
urge a brown girl to dance.