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Bryan Bearhart

Ko’ dóó łeeschch’iih [Fire and Ashes

The red off the far ridge, an eating dragon, slow
______coming down the valley
—my mom’s imagination over the phone,
______a quarter-mile of cars ahead.

No one has stopped, on their way north or south,
to capture Hotshots turning the beast to smolder.

Somewhere out in the burn, under dusk, a rattler
______den unfurls fast as brush fire
and clenches against the inferno draft
______that blocks entrance and escape.

For an instant, or minutes maybe, their unnatural
warmth is a comfort beneath the ablaze final day.

It’s the shape I’m in. I don’t tell her that I will
______leave, days from this moment,
the high, dry mountain we drive towards
______for the ashes of a different monster.

_____________________________________
BOJAN LOUIS is a member of the Navajo Nation — Naakaii Dine’é; Ashiihí; Ta’neezahnii; Bilgáana. His poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Platte Valley ReviewHinchas de Poesía, and the American Indian Research and Culture Journal; his fiction in Alaska Quarterly Review.  He is the author of the nonfiction chapbook,Troubleshooting Silence in Arizona (Guillotine Series, 2012).  He has been a resident at The MacDowell Colony.  He earns his ends and writing time by working as an electrician, construction worker, and English Instructor at universities and community colleges in the Phoenix metropolitan area.

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____________________________________________
Layli Long Soldier
holds a BFA in creative writing from the Institute of American Indian Arts and is currently pursuing her MFA at Bard College. She resides in Tsaile, AZ on the Navajo Nation with her husband and daughter and is an adjunct faculty member at Diné College. Her first chapbook of poetry is titled, Chromosomory (Q Ave Press, 2010).

Ode to the Beloved’s Hips

Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered
percussion in the morning—are the morning.
Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little
longer, a little slower, a little easy.  Call to me—
I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock
right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb
chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna.
How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed
Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur.
My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena,
ecstatic devourer.

O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped
the amber—fast honey—from their openness—
Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked
smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa
coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire
to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet-
dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond—
to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue—
come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips,
I am—strummed-song and succubus.

They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book—
the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel.
Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays,
Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray.

Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera.
Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle:
What do I see? Hips:
Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone.
Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread,
wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be:
Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel.
Bone basin bone throne bone lamp.
Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery—
slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade
in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me
to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit,
laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God,
I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth
for pear upon apple upon fig.

More than all that are your hips.
They are a city. They are Kingdom—
Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire—
thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth.
Beloved, your hips are the war.

At night your legs, love, are boulevards
leading me beggared and hungry to your candy
house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late
and the tables have been cleared,
in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake.

O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve,
a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are
kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning
comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon,
let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me
circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming
for your dark matter.

Along las calles de tus muslos I wander—
follow the parade of pulse like a drum line—
descend into your Plaza del Toros
hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros.
Your arched hips—ay, mi torera.
Down the long corridor, your wet walls
lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed.
I am the animal born to rush your rich red
muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan,
a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner
thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre
Manolete—press and part you like a wound—
make the crowd pounding in the grandstand
of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.

_______________________________________________
Natalie Diaz is Mojave and Pima and was born and raised in Fort Mojave Indian Village in Needles, CA. After playing professional basketball in Europe and Asia, she returned to Old Dominion University and earned an MFA. Her poetry and fiction has been published in the Iowa Review, the North American Review, Narrative Magazine, Prairie Schooner, and others. Her first book, When My Brother Was an Aztec, was published by Copper Canyon Press in May 2012. She recently received the 2012 Bread Loaf Louis Untermeyer Scholarship in Poetry and a 2012 Lannan Residency in Marfa, TX. She currently lives in Mohave Valley, Arizona where she works with the last speakers of the Mojave language at Fort Mojave and directs a language revitalization program

The Smoke that Settles

The smoke that settles comes from somewhere else.
Carried by breath exhaled like word of mouth.
It’s the bastard offspring of old things and delivered by fate.
Thick with the smell of fresh endings brought on too soon.
Sneaking up on you making eyes burn,
constricting airways and reminding us of what power is.

The smoke that settles travels miles and miles.
Looking for just the right place to weigh heavily
on the hearts and minds of men,
with no regard for their strength or season.
In time, they may rage with fiery passion
or wither in cold air doused by fear.

The smoke that settles will cover us all at some point
forcing us to inhale its conquests and either become a victim
or to exhale new fire warming those around us.
Igniting wild across old lands and forging new justice.
The kind that matters only if you believe
that from old must come new
despite time and sometimes in spite of you.

For I never want to be the smoke that settles.
How sad to be stagnant and blue.
It’s the fires’ job to inspire and create new life.
Leaving behind a legacy drifting behind
smoldering and smoking.
It finds where it belongs and sings songs in remembrance of those it took
with unchained fervor and blind desire.
Because let us not forget that the smoke that settles
will always taste like fire.

New Year’s in Corfu

Above the village of Gastouri, during Kaiser Wilhelm II’s reign, Corfu’s Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, summered at the Achillion Palace. A recreation of a Phaeacian Palace, it was used as a hospital during World War II. It was later transformed into a casino.

I would have kept us as we were
above the village of Gastouri
in winter, pensiones closed,
vineyards ripe with kumquats, fennel,
stray cats crouching under rain pipes,
olive nets damped down with mud.

Even though it was not our island,
not our goats to unchain from the hills’
Phaeacian ruins’ stiff-jawed rockrose,
each tree scraping starfish from the sea,
each beach a frieze of Odysseus’s shipwreck.

Even though the road to Perithia
was brocaded shut with ferns,
the stone fields fevered with poppies,
and Mount Pantokrator sloped with crocuses
where we walked to that high monastery,
gold-headed thistles igniting the apse.

Even though we lost our way
in the island’s windy basilica halls
where goat bells clanged for its Old World Empress
whose daughters, dogged in winter pelts,
sprawled on marble by the icon kiosks,
and priests, swinging their rust-gold lanterns,
darkened the storefronts of lingerie
on the cold slate sun-bleached promenades
of gold-foiled chocolates and baklava bakeries,
dim bulbs half-lighting skinned lambs on hooks.

Even with the shepherds sinking beer cans into fog
to measure the tide of their clambering sheep,
their bleating and beclouded Ionian Sea—

even at that bottom of January,
the Sirocco blowing through Judas trees,
Santas noosed from loose shutter hinges,
a freezing rain hoofing over roofs,
and the two of us, embers in an emptying tavern
with an out-of-tune bouzouki band,
spinach pie and gritty wine—

I would have kept us as we were
knowing that the spring would bring
its umber clouds above the sea,
the casino re-colonized by black moss
and tulips, and Calypso’s spellbound
mirage of an island, shingled with egrets,
would fade in the tradewinds
as the fishing boats flashed off
their last-catch starboard lights,
and the Virgin of Kassiopi, the Saint of Sailors,
would throw her crossbones overboard,
blow our votive out.

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Jennifer Elise Foerster received her MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts (July 2007) and her BFA from the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico (2003). She has received fellowships to attend Soul Mountain Retreat, Naropa Summer Writing Program, Idyllwild Summer Poetry Program, Dorland Mountain Arts Colony, and the Vermont Studio Center. From 2008-2010, Jennifer was a Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University. Of German, Dutch, and Muscogee descent, she is a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation of Oklahoma, and grew up living internationally. Jennifer lives in San Francisco.