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Archive Issue |
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Tribal Fires Journal |
Cuddles How many tonight? I'm doing double duty. Which room will be mine? I always like the younger ones, they work me hardest, and rather than exhaust, fill me with exuberance. When they are newer than a season, I'm spellbound by the first sight. Abandoned cocaine and heroin newborns who have to suffer what a man can't even take. Don't blame their child-mothers. Young themselves, but older than the winters they have lived, they are also at life's journey's end. These abandoned infants will be without mommas. These child-women walk on grimy streets with hawks in pursuit. These girls didn't choose this life, this tragic style, even if they claim it so. Our future mothers so forcefully affected. When claim of being a survivor of the streets, they may be right, I see they may truly be. These child-mothers, dying of the latest plague, reign triumphant in the end. They'll forever remain. Their history will flow through the hearts within their orphaned children. Blood prevails. Tonight I've got room 546, four babies under 2 months. Sparing nothing, giving them all of myself, while I squeeze them through withdrawals, Then they cry and shiver to remind you not to slacken. I hold one along my thighs positioned upright squeezing with a warm lap. I maneuver two snuggled within my long arms. And for the fourth wedged at my side, I can manage to give another cuddle. Jennifer Blocker |
TJ I remember a child in my heart I see a young man today Frustrated, hurt, scared and bored. I remember a corner flip of the blanket covered your body. Protected and warm Small secure infant nestled next to me. I remember the first time you laughed. Small infant smiling. Drinking and drugs, Rap music, hard rock and fast cars. You wanting respect and disrespecting people at the same time. Today, your running with the crowd Cool tough bunch, native pride. One by one they fall and crash Life leaving their bodies Your still surviving Running the fast life Chasing quick schemes Paranoid by drugs I could chase you down into the early mornings, drag you back home. Let you sleep until the afternoons I could give you everything to try to make you behave and hoping your promises to change will hold. This child, your memories are kept close to my heart. His life he insists is his life. He wants to be an adult. Your gone and running I live another day and wonder if I will ever see you again. I hear her say, your up for 15 years to life on Tuesday. 16 years old and trying you as an adult. I pull my sage, gather the cedar, start the fire for you. I ask “What can I do?” They say, “You are doing what you can do.” I wait and hope you make it back to us. Cherylin Z. Martin-Wade
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Archives Tribal Fires Journal Volume 1 Issue 1 Volume 1 Issue 2 Volume 1 Issue 3 Volume 1 Issue 4
Tribal Fires Journal Tribal Fires Journal Volume 3 Issue 2- Missing Volume 3 Issue 3- Missing Volume 3 Issue 4- Missing Tribal Fires Journal Volume 4 Issue 2 Volume 4 Issue 3 - Missing Volume 4 Issue 4 Tribal Fires Journal Volume 5 Issue 3 Volume 5 Issue 4 Tribal Fires Journal Tribal Fires Journal |
Tribal Fires Journal is currently open for submission of poetry, essay's and short stories for the coming Fall issue.
Please send copies of writings to:
Tribal Fires Journal | 4807 Onigum Marina Drive NW | Walker, MN 56484
Also include your tribal affiliation, and writer's profile.
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by CZ Martin Art & Design
Updated: November 22, 2005
