in the little white church house and says “I am your hero.” I know I have no choice. I know I am as much his as I am my own. I know when they ask me about my favorite writer his name will still dangle off my tongue easy and sweet. And it feels good, most of the time, to finally say what they want me to. Fulfilling expectations is safe and it’s good to feel safe when you live life in fear of losing your own skin. But tonight, in the last pew, I know I’m lying when I smile. Coyote was a trickster and my worship is no different. My hero has taken off his mask. My hero has screamed, but only the ancestors have screamed back. I let Sherman rest his hand there, atop the half-moon scar on my leg. The women whose bodies he’s colonized hang by red thread from the arched ceilings above us. They hang like the Jesus neither of us believe in hangs from the cross. I breathe in unison with the bodies above me. Our heartbeats synchronize. But Sherman, he doesn’t breathe at all. His heart is buried deep in his belly. The only sound his stagnant form emits is the low howl of his grinding teeth.
ABOUT EMILY CLARKE
Emily Clarke is a Cahuilla Native American writer, activist, photographer, and traditional dancer. Emily graduated from Idyllwild Arts in 2018 with a certificate in Creative Writing and is now continuing her study at University of California Riverside. Emily’s work strives to find common ground between art and activism while also creating a safe environment for her readers to learn about Native rights and issues they may not have been confronted with before.