I am the warrioress my father placed me to become, when he tightened securely my medicine bundles onto my sash.
When he fought alongside his comrades for this flag.
Freedom was a name for the strawberry, in my hand.
The farmworker little girl that could pick all the crops the white man pointed to.
All his crops except her peoples Hikuri.
I have to eat peyote now, through the registry.
Through the lottery and the innocent unknowing invitation of my relatives.
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