WEBVTT

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[SPEAKING MOJAVE]

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My name is Natalie, and
I come from Fort Mojave.

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I am Mojave, and I'm also Pima.

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Eduardo brought
the rain, as usual.

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He's always saying, I'm
going to make it rain.

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I'm going to make it rain.

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He finally did.

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Yeah.

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So thank you, guys,
for being here,

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the Poetry Center for having us.

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And like Eduardo said,
you guys are pretty lucky.

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I didn't have teachers this
cool when I was in school.

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We had this guy who would sit in
the back and drink cough syrup

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most of the day.

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He was one of the most
memorable teachers I have.

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So you guys have some cool
teachers, like Kurt's here,

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like Amy.

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I see Danny over there, and then
Renee and Tyler from the Poetry

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Center.

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So I think you guys
are pretty lucky.

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And it's Friday, so
we're all pretty lucky.

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"The Red Blues."

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"There is a dawn
between my legs,

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a rising of mad rouge birds
overflowing and crazy-mean,

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bronzetailed hawks, a phoenix
preening sharp-hot wings,

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pretty pecking procession,
feathers flashing like flames

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in a Semana Santa parade.

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There are bulls between
my legs, a torera

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stabbing her banderilla,
snapping her cape,

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tippy-toes scraping my mottled
thighs, the crowd's throats

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open, shining like
new scars, cornadas

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glowing from beneath hands
and white handkerchiefs,

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bright as bandages.

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There are car wrecks
between my legs,

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a mess of maroon Volkswagens,
a rusted bus abandoned

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in the Grand Canyon, a
gas tanker in flames,

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an IHS van full of
corned beef hash,

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an open can of commodity
beets on this village's one

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main road, a stoplight
pulsing like a bullet hole,

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a police car flickering like
a scab, an ambulance driven

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by Custer, another
ambulance for Custer.

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There is a war between my
legs, 'ahway nyavay, a wager,

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a fight that cramps my
fists, a battle on eroding

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banks of muddy creeks,
the stench of metal,

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purple-gray clotting the air,
in the grass the bodies dim,

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cracked pomegranates, stone
fruit, this orchard stains

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like a cemetery.

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There is a martyr
between my legs,

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my personal San Sebastián
leaking reed arrows and sin,

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stubbornly sowing a sacred red
ribbon dress, ahvay chuchqer,

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the carmine threads pool the
Colorado River, 'Aha Haviily,

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clay and creosotes from the
skirt, each wound a week,

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a coral moon, a calendar,
a begging for a master,

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or a slave, for a god in
magic cochineal pants.

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There are broken baskets
between my legs, cracked vases,

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terracotta crumbs, crippled
grandmothers with mahogany

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skins whose ruby shoes
throb on shelves in closets,

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who teach me to vomit
this fuchsia madness,

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this scarlet smallpox blanket,
this sugar-riddled amputated

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robe, these cursive curses
scrolling down my calves

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as rotting strawberry
fields, swollen sunset,

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hemoglobin joke
with no punch line,

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this crimson garbage
truck, this bloody nose,

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splintered cherry tree,
this métis Mary's heart,

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guitarra acerezada, red race
mestiza, this cattle train,

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this slug in the mouth, this
'av'unye 'ahwaatm, via roja

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dolorosa, this dark hut, this
mud house, this dirty bed,

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this period of exile."

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So one of the questions asked
if what that poem was about.

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And so we'll just watch
all the guys squirm.

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So it's about cramps.

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So if you guys don't know about
that, it's time you learn.

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