I don’t quite know what this is.
The only word coming is index.
So perhaps this is an index 
of how my body came to be, 
here,
thinking the things I think.
Perhaps it’s a reckoning with the histories and patterns of which I’m a part,
and the ever-present politics of my white body on this land.
This, a body that breathes among other beings.
This, a body that came from other beings—
who believed stories
left stories
sailed on stories.
Women who sang and wrote and resisted.
Beings who gave kindness at least once,
harmed another at least once.
Some clawed at injustice
others built it.
Perhaps this is a seeping of 
the stories they told me (this land is your land)
the stories they didn’t (whose land?)
the stories spoken at a slant (your skin is property, to be exchanged for privilege)
all of which influence the stories I make.
Perhaps it’s my need to push these things outside 
my skin
to be seen together and alongside 
my skin.
And perhaps this will always be a failed attempt 
to sort what runs from order.