BY GLORIA O’KOYE
Rolls of red cloth cover across Turtle Island
Reminding that lifelines cut short
Because of their inheritance.
The dresses cut out and flow through the wind
Are like the voices of spirits crying out to be found, to come back home, to seek Justice.
Cries that are silenced by the hands
The same hands that belong to those
That wanted to play higher powers
With judging who gets to live, or to be left
For dead.
The same hands that speak with meaningless words and downplaying
the crisis in this so-called land.
They are the blood memories of children that never made it back home.
They are missing and murdered behind the prison walls.
These red dresses tell stories for every single life that the first breath went through their souls.
It is not a trend
It is not a fashion statement.
It is not for political correctness
It is not meant to provide pleasing vibes for optics.
They are the life bearers,
The wise grandmothers
And carriers of culture and lineage.
They are the solid rock
Holding up nations.
