[SPEAKING MOJAVE]
My name is Natalie, and I come from Fort Mojave.
I am Mojave, and I'm also Pima.
Eduardo brought the rain, as usual.
He's always saying, I'm going to make it rain.
I'm going to make it rain.
He finally did.
Yeah.
So thank you, guys, for being here,
the Poetry Center for having us.
And like Eduardo said, you guys are pretty lucky.
I didn't have teachers this cool when I was in school.
We had this guy who would sit in the back and drink cough syrup
most of the day.
He was one of the most memorable teachers I have.
So you guys have some cool teachers, like Kurt's here,
like Amy.
I see Danny over there, and then Renee and Tyler from the Poetry
Center.
So I think you guys are pretty lucky.
And it's Friday, so we're all pretty lucky.
"The Red Blues."
"There is a dawn between my legs,
a rising of mad rouge birds overflowing and crazy-mean,
bronzetailed 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 banderilla, 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 scab, an ambulance driven
by Custer, another ambulance for Custer.
There is a war between my legs, 'ahway nyavay, a wager,
a fight 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 sowing a sacred red ribbon dress, ahvay chuchqer,
the carmine threads pool 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,
terracotta 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 scrolling down my calves
as rotting strawberry fields, swollen sunset,
hemoglobin joke with no punch line,
this crimson garbage truck, this bloody nose,
splintered cherry tree, this métis Mary's heart,
guitarra acerezada, red race mestiza, this cattle train,
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."
So one of the questions asked if what that poem was about.
And so we'll just watch all the guys squirm.
So it's about cramps.
So if you guys don't know about that, it's time you learn.