But I could say anything, couldn’t I?Like a bed we make and unmake at whim,the truth is always changing,always shaped by the latestcollective urge to destroy. — Ai, from “The Testimony of J. Robert Oppenheimer,” Vice: New and Selected Poems. (W. W. Norton & Company; 1st Ed. edition June 17, 2000) Originally published March 1st… Continue reading Ai
I don’t remember yesterdayand there is no tomorrow.There is only the momentthe knife descendsfrom the equatorial dark. — Ai, from “The Detective,” Vice: New and Selected Poems. (W. W. Norton & Company; 1st ed. edition June 17, 2000)
To be held by the light was what I wanted, to be a tree drinking the rain, — Linda Hogan, from “To Be Held,” Dark. Sweet. (Coffee House Press July 1, 2014)
Nothing lives long Only the earth and mountains — Dee Brown, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West. (Holt Paperbacks; 30th Anniversary edition January 23, 2001) Originally published 1970.
any opening up at all is no small feat when romancing the edge of an echo — Cedar Sigo, from “On Strings of Blue,” Royals (Wave Books, 2017)
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… Continue reading Natalie Díaz
The pull of all water toward the ocean, the hope that somewhere there is a world undisturbed, that when we enter, it closes behind us as if we were never here. Someplace a source, a place without despair, the beginning. — Linda Hogan, from “Sounding the Depths,” Rounding the Human Corners (Coffee House Press, 2008)
There are wild flowers in my desert which take up to twenty years to bloom. The seeds sleep like geodes beneath hot feldspar sand until a flash flood bolts the arroyo, lifting them in its copper current, opens them with memory— they remember what their god whispered into their ribs: Wake up and ache for… Continue reading Natalie Díaz
She wanted to find a way to love them in death, because she forgot how to love them in life. — Sherman Alexie, Reservation Blues. (Grove Press; Reprint edition February 7, 2005) Originally published January 1st 1995.
A tongue will wrestle its mouth to death and lose— language is a cemetery. — Natalie Díaz, from “Cloud Watching,” When My Brother Was an Aztec (Copper Canyon, 2012)