This last poem from this book is called "At Mexican Springs."
Frances read part of it.
Well, she just-- she mentioned it in her introduction.
I wanted to have a poem at the very end, that could close
your own on this experience.
And so, this is called "At Mexican Springs,"
which is a little place on the Navajo reservation.
"Up here, I can see the glimmering lights of Gallup
calling the reservation, like a whore standing
under a light post, the way they do in Juarez.
In Gallup, when our sons are born, they say,
'she gave birth to a wino.'
Gallup steals our children, returns them empty
and crumbled.
But here, the hills are quietly breathing.
The earth is a warm, glowing blanket holding me in her arms.
It is here among the sunset in every plant, every rock,
every shadow, every movement, every thing.
I relive visions of ancient stories.
First Woman and First Man, their children
stretched across these eternal sandstones.
A deep breath, she brings me sustenance, life,
and I will live to tell my children these things."