Well, Kimberly teased out that we have one more treat in store.
And indeed, we do.
So I am going to bring Kimberly back to the stage
and she'll explain what's happening.
OK, this is it.
Have you noticed the flags been flying?
So the Poetry Center has a display
of the 22 flags of the Indigenous nations of Arizona.
And when we were coming and we found that out,
we thought, what if we got a flag
for every nation of our fellows and faculty and visiting
writers?
So we did.
And you may have seen those flying outside.
So we thought a lot about flags this week.
We did.
We held our flags.
We talked about our flags.
We thought about the symbol of the flag, the origin
of the symbol of the flag.
Oops, I think if I go over there, you lose me.
And we also thought about, what did tribes
have before they had the kind of flag that's an oblong?
And we thought about what other things do we hold dear?
And if we were to make a flag, from what would we make it?
Or for whom would we make it?
And so we wanted to both think about the symbolism of flag,
perhaps critique that a little bit or a lot,
and then also envision what a flag could be for us.
So all the fellows have written, we created a collaborative poem,
and everybody's going to come up and we're
going to read it boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.
So you have to all line up in the order
in which your lines come.
And I will tell you, in case you're wondering:
Ofelia, Laura, Chris Hoshnic, Sunni, Mariana, Danielle,
Pomaika'i, Christopher, Robert, Selene, Anna, me, Kentaro,
Halee, Max, Anthony, and Rob.
And then what we're going to do is, first of all, where is--
I just want to make sure I'm standing.
I'm standing by--
I'm finding by after Anna, before Kentaro.
OK.
So here it is.
We're going to-- it's called-- guess what it's called?
Flag Song.
In tribal nations for powwows, we have flag songs
and that's how we bring them in.
So that's what this is called.
Ofelia.
Let's make a flag at the time of creation.
It will be tied with sinew-- and secured with 'ușab.
It will be made of first water and clay.
Clay that becomes us.
It will unfurl in first wind.
And on first night, it will have the stars to guide it.
The nation inside me is a clay pot
that doesn't crack when held to fire.
The nation inside me-- reds, melts,
and fans, burrow in the dirt with calloused hands,
rubbing my lower back.
A whisper across time.
You will be Diné again.
The nation inside me is glossed in copper tinsel
and turns the eye towards the shedded.
tire carcass blessed in bergamot buds, our glitter lakes
that go strange in the sun.
The rainbow glorious against gravel.
The nation inside me existed long before its flag.
When I wrap myself in my nation's flag,
I wrap myself in the waters of my homeland.
Our children spread across the land.
Villages become islands, drowning in an ocean of stripes
and stars because a flag cannot contain the journey it took
to fly.
I wrap myself in the kitchen radio dripping early morning
Diné bizaad, dripping translation
as my thoughts move letters to form something
akin to understanding.
When I wrap myself in my nation's flag,
I wrap myself in ocean and fire, torn
from kapa, colors a smell of rain amidst choked kiawe trees.
I wrap myself in shoreline, sea breeze, and sky.
The deep blue of water.
The deep blue of grief.
I fly the flag to remember tongue
of the sun, hands of the Earth, the ocean, our elder,
our future: not forgetting.
When I wrap myself in my nation, I
see my nieces with choke cherry stained hands.
Her aunties cackle at the grocery store,
taste sweet čeyaka made by uŋčí the stardust in my bones
reminds me.
Before the American flag was áxmi
who breathed deeply, who raised mountains with rigid backs.
Who brought wána through valleys from atáchuush,
who gave the ability to weave baskets, who allowed chíish
to become wána wánasha from spirits back into áxmi.
We are a nation that can't be confined to cloth,
but we will be raised.
So let's make a flag of migizi feathers stored in cedar boxes.
Gift me momentum toward the seventh fire prophecy instead
of the American flag.
Let us make a flag for water nations,
a flag from morning fog rising over rice beds.
From the ripe stalks that wave, gone hands that wave.
A flag of oblong and symbol.
A flag of patriotic fantasy cannot contain distant water
drums.
The shsh, shsh breath of ripe stalks in fall.
The over/under of hair braiding.
The math of flag cannot erase our belonging.
Wool-woven Women: Helen at the base of Black Mesa.
Lily from Monument Valley.
Wring t'ó into clay, squash, and tears.
Then erosion-- of fear.
I fly for red birds who do not flutter away
from oncoming storms, who know that one day we
will excise all corners from our flags
until only the center is left.
We have our own flag embroidered with green corn, rain, flowers,
butterflies, and mountains, with embellishments
of eagle and macaw feathers and foxtail [INAUDIBLE]
When I drape my shoulders in this fabric, this azure seal
and cloth of another Minnesota, this veil
is an emblem of my mother.
Her endless obsidian, her northern sky,
her fraction of a sun set long ago.
I drape myself in latte stones carved from the Earth.
In the åcho' atupat in a warrior's sling,
I drape myself in a sky that burns so bright it might become
a flag of its own.
Thank you so much, everybody.
[APPLAUSE]
And thank you so much for being here.
Give it up for all of these amazing poets.
Did I not say Indigenous excellence?
Give it up.
Standing ovation.
Jumping ovation.
Thank you, everybody, for being here tonight.
Have a wonderful evening.
And thank you to the University of Arizona Poetry
Center for hosting us.