Lady Louse - Ashley

Lady Spring 2013 Ashley Shelafoe

Louse

For the lice

Vi Hilbert adapted the following short story.

She was an elder of the upper Skagit tribe, who spoke and taught fluent Lushootseed.

Lushootseed is the language of the first people of the Puget Sound area, otherwise known as Salish people. There is a dance and song to this story that I’ve practiced since I was 6 or 7, every Saturday at the Duwamish tribe’s song and dance rehearsals. The dancers walk in a circle, hand on hips. They are dust. When Lady Louse sweeps the dancing dust with a drumstick tap, the dust particle jumps, and spins around her.

Legend of Corn Woman

Corn Woman lived in a two story house on top of a steep driveway, overlooking the unkempt Swiss Gables apartments. Her and her brothers built the house together of her design. It was her dream house. She lived here with Grandpa Shelafoe, her significant other, and decided she wanted a kid. They tried, and it almost worked.

Soon after, She-who-sits-a-little was sent to live with Corn Woman and Grandpa Shelafoe. She was just a baby. It was exactly what Corn Woman was praying for.

After the baby, Zieuphtid, The First or The Oldest, was also sent to live with Corn Woman and their Grandpa Shelafoe, along with the rest of the siblings—Little Helper, Reflection, and Little Thinker.

The Five Shelafoe grandkids came without lessons of love. Some had been physically abused, had rashes, and lice.

When Grandpa Shelafoe passed away, the pillars of the house fell with him. Raising the five Shelafoes alone was more than Corn Woman could handle. She kept them anyway, long after they ate the last of her corn.

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Insecurities invade both my private and flippant thoughts They are the underbelly of ignored pain climbing up my chakra chain to swing from it, yanking digging skid marks across soggy wooden depths stirring the empty womb loneliness side to side The rotting existence Knotting my tangles in my sleep Jangling the chain running through my core Startling walls awake Nails alert in an upward grip slipping more often than I climb digging into my posture—down, down Vacuuming my gaze into burnt holes in the paper world of light My coveted look out from pitch darkness Scrutinizing the farthest point perceivable Weary of waves shaped like slicing scissors feeding the insecurity spiral to spin it on.