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Outside children play inside crumbling homes, roofs and screens full of holes like parents.
The Pine Ridge Reservation stinks of alcohol, sweat, greasy hair, and God. She wears two different shoes, one pink dress sandal, one torn brown loafer, both dusted with the dirt and grime of the plains. I take a picture of her standing in the middle of the road, arms crossed in determination, a dusty brown model with mahogany eyes like copper pennies asking wondering why my shoes are the same. White man missionaries splashing paint and prayers over years of lies going back as long as anyone can remember. I walk on Wounded Knee with knees white and knobby that have only bled from childhood pavement and womanly razors.