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.
Brockton Writers Series 