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Natalie Diaz

When My Brother Was an Aztec

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    jorgelandabcompartió una citahace 4 días
    The world has tired of tears.
    We weep owls now. They live longer.
    They know their way in the dark
    Roberto Garzacompartió una citael mes pasado
    The Last Mojave Indian Barbie
    Roberto Garzacompartió una citael mes pasado
    Some Indians’ wisdom teeth never stop growing back in—

    we were made to bite back—

    until we learn to bite first
    Roberto Garzacompartió una citahace 2 meses
    like gum they swallowed in first grade.

    The grandmas return from misa, with full to the brim

    estómagos and overflowing souls, to empty homes
    Roberto Garzacompartió una citahace 2 meses
    like burritos—tight and fat como porros—to hold us
    Roberto Garzacompartió una citahace 2 meses
    Still cries telling how she peed the bed there How the white teacher wrapped her in her wet sheets & made her stand in the hall all day for the other Indian kids to see
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    All this before we knew that some wounds can’t heal
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    He doesn’t sit in chairs anymore and is always on his feet,

    hovering by the window, peeking out the door, Because,

    he explains, everyone is the enemy, even you, even me.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    The Beauty of a Busted Fruit
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    Why I Don’t Mention Flowers When Conversations with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    and says that unless I’ve felt the bright beaks of ancient Stymphalian birds,

    unless I’ve felt the color red raining from Heaven and marching

    in my veins, I’ll never know the sound of war.

    But I do know that since my brother’s been back,

    orange clouds hang above him like fruit made of smoke,
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    a branch breaking, a ship undone by the shore,

    a knife making love to a wound, the sweet scrape

    of a match lighting the lamp of her mouth.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    Worry tastes so dirty when it’s spread out like a banquet.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    because tonight you are not in the mood

    to have your heart ripped out. It gets old,

    having your heart ripped out,

    being opened up that way.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    My father brought home a zebra from Sinaloa. This house is a zoo, my mother wept. Ay, but this amazing creature is for you, mi vida, he said. You only give me beasts, she sobbed, flinging herself over the bony, swayed back of the zebra. She loosened a new Colorado River of tears, so much water that the zebra’s stripes melted and pooled at his ankles like four beaten prisoners. Ay, you see, my father howled, you ruined it. Amor, it is no zebra. It is a burro painted like a zebra. But, don’t be sad. The beasts are not beasts. They are our children painted like hyenas
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    The beasts are not beasts. They are our children painted like hyenas.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    Unfasten your cage of teeth and tongue.

    The taste of a thousand moths is chalk.

    The mottled wings are the words to pain.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    All the beds of the past cannot dress the ghosts

    at my table.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    The world has tired of tears.

    We weep owls now. They live longer.

    They know their way in the dark.
    i. 🌤️compartió una citahace 2 meses
    There’s no such thing as gentle weeping.
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