Brockton Writers Series 08.03.23: Seán Carson Kinsella

Seán Carson Kinsella (ê akimihtt nêhi(y/th)aw/otipemisiwak/Nakawé/Irish) is migizi dodem (Bald Eagle Clan) and Indigequeer/aayahkwêw/tastawiyiniw with ancestors and extended kin who were signatories of Treaties 4, 6 and 8. They are a sought keynote speaker, storyteller, and smutty poet and are have been featured in the Toronto Festival of Authors, the Naked Heart Festival, and are a regular reader at Glad Day’s Smut Peddlers reading series.

triptych of Indigequeer desire (giimikan) 


the word for an orange 

in nêhiyawêwin speaks to the colour

of the juice currently splashed on your

chin. in the queer brunch please with

all the mutual cruising, i am fixated on

the small drip as it meets the creases

of your mouth and has dribbled down

poised to fall on the paper tablecloth. 


i want to tell you about how many of

the stories i wrote with oranges end 

with piles of sweat covered beings 

incorporating each other but it would 

mean leaning close to your ear and

i would be tempted to use tongue to

lap the moisture up. when we split

the bill and leave you lean over and

whisper that you are as slick and

juicy as those slices, cut the way

i would at home, and that you want

to find a place just private enough 

to avoid public fines and colonial

justice systems obsessed with 

decency but give no mind at

all to the small acts that add up

to genocide, the trauma of which


we come against over and over

until we find ways to spit it out 

like an errant seed that brings the

potential for new growth in us. 


sour key

i tell you i am like a sour key, tangy on the outside

and sweet and gelatinous on the in. you tell me it

is your favourite thing to suck on and smirk when

i ask “candy…or?”. we’ve moved on to topics of

land back and sovereignty and i find myself just

staring at your lips as they say the brilliant things

and realize when we shift positions that i am wet,

very soaking wet. when we leave the cafe, you 

ask, “still thinking about that sour key?” and i

drop my eyes and turn crimson. “you are lucky

red is your colour” you say as you pull a sour

key out of your bag, and slowly unwrap it. “now

let’s see if we can find a place to make this stick.”

your tongue is slowly wiping the sugar off and

i tell you “i have a few ideas, but you may need

to tie me up and try a few before we see where

it holds the longest.” you nod, look deep into my

eyes and say “let’s see where the night takes us.”


sacretest of liquids

i’ll always be one to stain pots and sheets with the sacretest of 

liquids. cedar can leave rings if you leave it too long, and i’m

one to always remind myself and sweeties that it is just stuff

that is meant to be used, thanked and honoured. i am as 

sentimental as anyone, and still keep my kookum’s dishes in a 

rubbermaid in the basement to use on special occasions – 

her first real set of china that my auntie and nimama got her. 

to exist as an ndn is to know we will cause these marks and 

to keep going – for like the tricksters in our stories we tell in 

when snow is on the ground, life is about learning, making 

mistakes and figuring out how to correct them, those little 

rings and marks on sheets reminders of all we have learned, 

and the simple pleasures of finding medicines that help us 

survive in whatever forms we can – away from the ideologies 

that tried to tell us we were savage and heathen, when we

are still just trying to find those sacred moments of creation,

and both tea and sheets are meant to be shared with as 

many sweeties as medicine and space will allow us to find.


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