
From the First-Issue Collective
Toward Socialist Feminism
Tijuana Maid
Women in the Community Mural Movement
Women and Honor: Some Notes on Lying
Adman
Zucchini Poem
The Art of Not Bowing: Writing by Women in Prison
Astrology Hype
Ten Ways of Looking at Prison Lunch
Alone
La Roquette, Women's Prison
Fays, Floozies, and Philosphical Flaws
The Esthetics of Power in Modern Erotic Art
ABCS
Do You Think
the empress anastasia in new york
Dead in Bloody Snow
Notes From the First Year
Feminist Abstract Art--A Poltical Viewpoint
"Female Experience in Art": The Impact of Women's Art in a Work Environment
The Pink Glass Swan: Upward and Downward Mobility in the Art World
Juggling Contradictions: Feminism, the Individual and What's Left
Moratorium: Front Lawn: 1970
Who Are We? What Do We Want? What Do We Do?
On Women's Refusal to Celebrate Male Creativity
What is Left?
Around Coming Around
Wages for Housework: The Strategy for Women's Liberation
Dead in Bloody Snow
Meridel LeSueur
I am an Indian woman
Witness to my earth
Witness for my people.
I am the nocturnal door,
The hidden cave of your sorrow,
Like you hidden deep in furrow
and dung
of the charnel mound,
I heard the craven passing of the
white soldiers
And saw them shoot at Wounded Knee
upon the sleeping village,
And ran with the guns at my back
Until we froze in our blood on the snow
I speak from old portages
Where they pursued and shot into the river crossing
All the grandmothers of Black Hawk.
I speak from the smoke of grief,
from the broken stone,
And cry with the women crying from the marsh
Trail and tears of drouthed women,
O bitter barren!
O barren bitter!
I run, homeless.
I arrive
in the gun sight,
beside the white square houses
of abundance.
My people starve
In the time of the bitter moon.
I hear my ghostly people crying
A hey a hey a hey.
Rising from our dusty dead the sweet grass,
The skull marking the place of loss and flight.
I sing holding my severed head,
to my dismembered child,
A people's dream that died in bloody snow.
Meridel LeSueur defines herself as "a 76-year-old Midwestern writer," something of an understatement since she has published 12 books and innumerable stories, articles and poems. "Dead in Bloody Snow" is reprinted from Rites of Ancient Ripening (Vanilla Press, Minneapolis, 1975) in which she says, "Slogan for 76: Survival is a form of resistance."