WEBVTT

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This is the first poem
in "A Radiant Curve".

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It's called "The Warp is Even".

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"The warp is even,
taut vertical loops

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between our father
and the earth.

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Today I begin anew, in the
gray pre-dawn the air is moist.

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As I walk, my footsteps
echo in the still morning,

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damp, fragrant circles appeared
overnight on the cold driveway.

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Soon they will vanish
with the sun's first rays,

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but now I breathe
the sweet dampness.

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Suddenly I miss my father so,
how he savored such mornings.

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He would have spoken to
the solitary dove that

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sits on the edge of
the red tile roof.

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Its long, delicate coos
are the rhythmic pauses

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of desert mornings.

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Today I began anew.

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This afternoon, after phone
calls and class preparations,

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I sit in the bright
sunlight, and twist,

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then loop the dark edging
cords along the top

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and bottom of the loom.

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My fingers move easily
between the turns of yarn,

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such needed slants of rain.

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"It hasn't rained here for
months," I tell my loom.

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On a clear, quiet afternoon
last spring, my mother

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said, "It's hard to see now,
my eyes are getting weak."

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It seemed that she had been
thinking of this for some time.

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Today, the tightly
spun dark red yarn

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falls into place evenly, as
I began anew for my mother,

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and some things she
remembers as she looks

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at rugs, the long
afternoons decades ago when

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the children slept, the
soft tamping of her batten

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comb echoed in the small house.

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The intricate double-sided
rugs her mother-in-law wove.

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Even now, 70 years later,
she marvels at the saddle rug

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Nihinálí ' Ásdząąn made
for her husband, my father.

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I began anew with my
mother's memories.

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Today, I began anew.

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On the mantle is
a small basketball

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my grandson left
when he last visited.

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I look down the bright hallway
and recall his bubbling baby

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laughter.

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His dark shiny eyes
glitter with delight.

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I easily recall
the warm tautness

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of his little body in my arms.

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His black thick hair against
the bend of my elbow.

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He lets me carry him as
if he were an infant.

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I sing old songs,
and he watches me.

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[SINGING IN NAVAJO]

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He watches the huge
blue sky overhead.

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I sing songs created just for
him, "Whose little boy are you?

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Whose little boy are you?

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Said I am grandma's boy.

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Grandma's little baby boy.

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Baby boy, baby boy,
grandma's little baby boy."

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As he listens
intently to the songs

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and watches the skies
of his homeland,

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I memorize everything.

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I wish for such
moments every day.

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I weave the first four rows
of black yarn for my little

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grandson, who inherited
my father's name,

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Hastiin Tsétah Naaki Bísóí.

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The warp is even, taut vertical
loops between our father

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and the earth.

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