This is where strange weather is in my lungs.
Is that the line?
Oh, my God.
I want to write to sharpen ourselves.
I write to sharpen ourselves, is that the line?
Damn.
I had the pleasure of working with Kentaro
and our next poet on the collaborative poem
that you're going to hear later.
And I got to see in real-time the brilliance and energy
and generosity that both of these poets offer.
And the next poet particularly, I'd like to say sometimes
that poetry is an act against silencing.
And this next poet, her work embodies that notion.
The poems are proclamations, poems are gloriously alive.
They're testaments to the beauty and power and sometimes
the pain of living.
Mariana Rivera is Yoeme poet of the Pascua Yaqui
tribe of Arizona.
Her poetry has been featured in an art exhibition
in collaboration with the Arizona State Museum,
and is currently engaged in fostering art
within her community.
Mariana.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you for the beautiful introduction.
And thank you, Kentaro, for opening up the space
with such beautiful words.
My name is Mariana Rivera [GREETS AUDIENCE IN YOEME].
I'm a member of the Yaqui tribe here in Tucson.
And, as you know, I am reading before you today
with Indigenous nations poets following a mentorship
retreat where we discussed things like sacred spaces, what
being sacred means, the importance of water and water
as roots.
And so on that note, I'll be reading two poems for you.
And this first one is about Being Afraid to Swim.
It's called Mala.
What would a world be without water?
What is a world without a mother?
Why fear what gives us life?
Conviction in your feet, firmly in sand.
Your babies meekly greet watchful waves.
Too wise, all-knowing spirits meet and never touch.
Too afraid of what collision would mean.
There is a mother from years outworn reaching
for her daughter always.
Pesky, leaky, dripping sink.
Spouting out gentle coos to ears deafened
by sounds of man building cities over land.
Home sickness lurks in dry riverbeds.
Do you feel her?
Pat your back.
Kiss your cheek, or graze your hand when drizzles fall gently
upon us.
Drops like fingertips shy of grasp.
You dip your toes from pool's shallow end
where she is contained, weakened,
never daring to dive deep.
She cries.
Every summer monsoon storms.
She hasn't forgotten us.
The ocotillo knows.
Blooming in respect.
Life bestowed upon unknowing souls.
It is a labor of love to roam the sky,
slither beneath cities, carve mountains,
swallow islands, and still run softly between our toes.
Marla wiggles my feet in the mornings.
She says, the price of staying in bed
is each little piggy I've grown, which she can steal at any time.
Never does.
Between fingertips and palm, I feel her grip tight.
How waves tug against the shore.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]