When My Brother Was an Aztec by Natalie Diaz Page B

stomach—
    devoured by shame.

    I still hate raisins,
    but not for the crooked commodity lines
    we stood in to get them—winding
    around and in the tribal gymnasium.
    Not for the awkward cardboard boxes
    we carried them home in. Not for the shits
    or how they distended my belly.
    I hate raisins because now I know
    my mom was hungry that day, too,
    and I ate all the raisins.

The Red Blues

    There is a dawn between my legs,
    a rising of mad rouge birds, overflowing
    and crazy-mean, bronze-tailed hawks,
    a phoenix preening
    sharp-hot wings, pretty pecking procession,
    feathers flashing like flames
    in a
Semana Santa
parade.

    There are bulls between my legs,
    a
torera
    stabbing her
banderillas,
    snapping her cape, tippy-toes scraping
    my mottled thighs, the crowd’s throats open,
    shining like new scars,
cornadas
glowing
    from beneath hands and white handkerchiefs
    bright as bandages.

    There are car wrecks between my legs,
    a mess of maroon Volkswagens,
    a rusted bus abandoned in the Grand Canyon,
    a gas tanker in flames,
    an IHS van full of corned beef hash,
    an open can of commodity beets
    on this village’s one main road, a stoplight
    pulsing like a bullet hole, a police car
    flickering like a new scab,
    an ambulance driven by Custer,
    another ambulance
    for Custer.

    There is a war between my legs,
    â€™ahway nyavay,
a wager, a fight, a losing
    that cramps my fists, a battle on eroding banks
    of muddy creeks, the stench of metal,
    purple-gray clotting the air,
    in the grass the bodies
    dim, cracked pomegranates, stone fruit,
    this orchard stains
    like a cemetery.

    There is a martyr between my legs,
    my personal San Sebastián
    leaking reed arrows and sin, stubbornly sewing
    a sacred red ribbon dress,
ahvay chuchqer,
    the carmine threads
    pull the Colorado River,
’Aha Haviily,
clay,
    and creosotes from the skirt,
    each wound a week,
    a coral moon, a calendar, a begging
    for a master, or a slave, for a god
    in magic cochineal pants.

    There are broken baskets between my legs,
    cracked vases, terra-cotta crumbs,
    crippled grandmothers with mahogany skins
    whose ruby shoes throb on shelves in closets,
    who teach me to vomit
    this fuchsia madness,
    this scarlet smallpox blanket,
    this sugar-riddled amputated robe,
    these cursive curses scrawling down my calves,
    this rotting strawberry field, swollen sunset,
    hemoglobin joke with no punch line,
    this crimson garbage truck,
    this bloody nose, splintered cherry tree,
manzano,
    this
métis
Mary’s heart,
    guitarra acerezada,
red race
mestiza,
this cattle train,
    this hand-me-down adobe drum,
    this slug in the mouth,
    this
’av’unye ’ahwaatm, via roja dolorosa,
    this dark hut, this mud house, this dirty bed,
    this period of exile.

The Gospel of Guy No-Horse

    At The Injun That Could, a jalopy bar drooping and lopsided
    on the bank of the Colorado River—a once mighty red body
    now dammed and tamed blue—Guy No-Horse was glistening
    drunk and dancing fancy with two white gals—both yellow-haired
    tourists still in bikini tops, freckled skins blistered pink
    by the savage Mohave Desert sun.

    Though The Injun, as it was known by locals, had no true dance floor—
    truths meant little on such a night—card tables covered in drink, ash,
    and melting ice had been pushed aside, shoved together to make a place
    for the rhythms that came easy to people in the coyote hours
    beyond midnight.

    In the midst of Camel smoke hanging lower and thicker
    than a September monsoon, No-Horse rode high, his PIMC-issued
    wheelchair transfigured—a magical chariot drawn by two blond,
    beer-clumsy palominos perfumed with coconut sunscreen and dollar-fifty
    Budweisers. He was as careful as any man could be at almost 2 a.m.
    to avoid their sunburned toes—in the brown light of The Injun, chips
    in their toenail polish glinted like diamonds.

    Other Indians noticed the awkward trinity and gathered round
    in a dented circle, clapping,