by Joy Harjo
Yellow horses rush in, snorting from the desert in the west.
It is possible to see across the entire valley to Niist’áá from Tó.
Bah, from here your grandmother went to war long ago.
She arrived amid a herd of horses.
Black horses came from the north.
They are the lush summers of Montana and still white winters of Idaho.
Chamisa, Chamisa Bah. It is all this that you are.
You will grow: laughing, crying,
and we will celebrate each change you live.
You will grow strong like the horses of your past.
You will grow strong like the horses of your birth.
Hills Brothers Coffee
My uncle is a small man.
In Navajo we call him, “shidá’í,”
my mother’s brother.
He doesn’t know English but
his name in the white way is Tom Jim.
He lives about a mile or so
down the road from our house.
One morning he sat in the kitchen,
drinking coffee.
I just came over, he said,
the store is where I’m going to.
He tells me about how my mother seems to be gone
every time he comes over.
Maybe she sees me coming
then runs and jumps in her car
and speeds away!
He says smiling.
We both laugh—just to think of my mother
jumping in her car and speeding.
I pour him more coffee and
he spoons in sugar and cream until
it looks almost like a chocolate shake
then he sees the coffee can.
Oh, that’s the coffee with the man in the dress
like a church man.
Ah-h, that’s the one that does it for me.
Very good coffee.
I sit down again and he tells me
some coffee has no kick.
Bu this one is the one.
It does it good for me.
I pour us both a cup and
while we wait for my mother,
his eyes crinkle with the smile and he says
yes, ah yes, this is the very one
(putting in more sugar and cream).
So I usually buy Hills Brothers coffee
once or twice a day
I drink a hot coffee and
it sure does it for me.
This Is How They Were Placed for Us
I
Hayoołkáałgo Sisnaajiní nihi neł’iih łeh.
Blanca Peak is adorned with white shell.
Blanca Peak is adorned with morning light.
She watches us rise at dawn.
Nidoohjeeh shá’áłchíní, nii łeh.
Get up, my children, she says.
She is the brightness of spring.
She is Changing Woman returned.
By Sisnaajiní, we set our standards for living.
Bik’ehgo da’iiná.
Because of her, we think and create.
Because of her, we make songs.
Because of her, the designs appear as we weave.
Because of her, we tell stories and laugh.
We believe in old values and new ideas.
Hayoołkáałgo Sisnaajiní bik’ehgo hózhónígo naashá.
II
This is how they were placed for us.
Ałní’ ní’ áago Tsoo dził áníi łeh, “Da’oosą́, shá’áłchíní.”
In the midday sunlight, Mount Taylor tells us,
“It’s time to eat, my little ones.”
She is adorned with turquoise.
She is adorned with lakes that sparkle in the sunlight.
Jó ’éí biniinaa nihitah yá’áhoot’ééh.
Tsoo dził represents our adolescence.
Mount Taylor gave us turquoise to honor all men,
thus we wear turquoise to honor our brothers,
we wear turquoise to honor our sons,
we wear turquoise to honor our fathers.
Because of Tsoo dził, we do this.
We envision our goals as we gaze southward.
Each summer, we are reminded of our own strength.
T’áá hó’ ájít’ iigo t’éiya dajiníi łeh.
Tsoo dził teaches us to believe in all ways of learning
Ałní’ ní’ áago Tsoodził bik’ehgo hózhónígo naashá.
III
This is how they were placed for us.
E’e’aahjigo, Dook’o’oosłííd sida.
To the west, the San Francisco Peaks are adorned with abalone.
Each evening she is majestic.
She is adorned with snow.
She is adorned with the white light of the moon.
The San Francisco Peaks represent the autumn of our lives.
Asdzání dahiniłníí doo.
Dinééh dahiniłníí doo.
In the autumn of our lives,
they will call us woman.
In the autumn of our lives,
they will call us man.
The San Francisco Peaks taught us to believe in strong families.
Dook’o’oosłííd binahji’ danihidziił.
The San Francisco Peaks taught us to value our many relatives.
E’e’aahjígo Dook’o’oosłííd bok’ehgo hózhónígo naashá.
IV
This is how they were placed for us.
Chahałheełgo Dibé Nitsaa, “Da’ołwosh, shá’áłchíní,” níi łeh.
From the north, darkness arrives—Hesperus Peak—
urges us to rest. “Go to sleep, my children,” she says.
She is adorned with jet.
She is our renewal, our rejuvenation.
Dibé Nitsaa binahji’ laanaa daniidzin łeh.
Hesperus Peak taught us to have hope for good things.
Haigo sáanii, dahiniłníí doo.
Haigo hastóíí, dahiniłníí doo.
In the winter of our life, they will call us elderly woman.
In the winter of our life, they will call us elderly man.
In the winter of our life, we will be appreciated.
In the winter of our life, we will rest.
Chahałheełgo Dibé Nitsaa bik’ehgo hózhónígo naashá.
This is how the world was placed for us.
In the midst of this land, Huerfano Mountain
is draped in precious fabrics.
Her clothes glitter and sway in the bright sunlight.
Gobernador Knob is clothed in sacred jewels.
She wears mornings of white shell.
She wears the midday light of turquoise.
She wears evenings of abalone, the light of the moon.
She wears nights of black jet.
This is how they were placed for us.
We dress as they have taught us,
adorned with precious jewels
and draped in soft fabrics.
All these were given to us to live by.
These mountains and the land keep us strong.
From them, and because of them, we prosper.
With this we speak,
with this we think,
with this we sing,
with this we pray.
This is where our prayers began.
DEBORAH A. MIRANDA (1961–), from Ohlone/Costanoan-Esselen and Chumash people, was born in Los Angeles, California, and grew up mostly in Washington State. She earned her PhD in English from the University of Washington. Her mixed-genre book Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir received the PEN Oakland/ Josephine Miles Literary Award; her poetry collections include Indian Cartography, The Zen of La Llorona, and Raised by Humans. Miranda is currently the Thomas H. Broadus Professor of English at Washington and Lee University.
I Am Not a Witness
I found Coyote, Eagle, and Momoy
in a book, but cannot read
the Chumash words. I found<
br />
photographs of bedrock slabs pocked by
hundreds of acorn-grinding holes,
but the holes are empty, the stone
pestles that would curve to my grip
lie dead behind museum glass.
Mountains and rivers and oaks rise
in Spanish accents: San Gabriel,
Santa Ynez, Robles.
These are not real names.
Some of our bones rest in 4000 graves
out back behind the Mission.
Some of our bones are mixed into mud
to strengthen cool thick walls
where smallpox and measles came and stayed.
Some of our bones washed down the river
whose name I do not know
past islands I cannot name
to the sea where
I have never sailed.
Mixed-blood, I lay claim by the arch
of my eyebrows, short nose, dark hands.
I am not a witness. I am left behind, child
of children who were locked in the Mission
and raped. I did not see this:
I was not there—but I am here.
Where is the place that knows me?
Mesa Verde
The earth is salmon-colored here, cracked
into plates like the shell of a giant turtle.
It is a place I’ve seen in a dream.
Our faces tingle with the heat of sun,
the fiery way we look at one another.
When we drive down the steep road
back to the highway, you stop
the car so I can gather a stalk of some
rosy blossom, unknown, unidentified.
Your hands gently cup the waxy petals,
fingertips outlining leaves as if you know
how to stroke color and scent, coax forth
a name like a blood secret. The aroma
of honey, nectar, hangs in dry air.
Tiny gold ants crawl on the hairy stem,
seek the deep center, enter it.
As we drive on, I leave the branch behind.
The ants will find their way home carrying
a burden so sweet it needs no name,
a story to tell about being taken up,
removed, finding the intricate paths back.
REX LEE JIM (1962–), Diné, was born and raised in Rock Point, Arizona, on the Navajo reservation. He is born of the Red House People and born for the Red Streak Running into Water People. He earned his MA from Middlebury College. His books include Saad Lá Tah Hózhóón: A Collection of Diné Poetry, Dúchas Táá Kóó Diné, and Áhí Ni’ Nikisheegiizh.
Saad
Hodeeyáádą́ą́’ honishłǫ́
Adáádą́ą́’ honishłǫ́
Dííjį́ honishłǫ́
Yiską́ągo honishłǫ́
Ahóyéel’áágóó honishłǫ́
Saad shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii díí shí nishłį́
Shee nitsáhákees
Shee tsohodizin
Shee ni’dit’a’
Shee yáti’
Shee nahat’á
Shee iiná
Saad shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii díí shí nishłį́
Ts’ídá t’áá ał’ąą ánísht’éego honishłǫ́
Shinahjį’ nitsáhákees ał’ąą át’é
Shinahjį’ tsodizin ał’ąą át’é
Shinahjį’ sin ał’ąą át’é
Shinahjį’ saad ał’ąą át’é
Shinahjį’ nahat’á ał’ąą át’é
Shinahjį’ iiná ał’ąą át’é
Saad shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii díí shí nishłį́
Iiná ałtaas’áí yisht’į́
Ó’ool’įįł ałtaas’áí yisht’į́
Yódí ałtaas’áí yisht’į́
Nitł’iz ałtaas’áí yisht’į́
Díí biniiyé nohokáá’ dine’é baa ádinisht’ą́
Nohokáá’ dine’é diyinii
Nohokáá’ dine’é ílíinii
Nohokáá’ dine’é jooba’ii
Díí biyi’dę́ę́’ hahosiists’įįhgo
Iiná doo nídínééshgóó k’ee’ąą yilzhish
Díí biniiyé nohokáá’ dine’é baa ádinisht’ą́
Saad shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii díí shí nishłį́
Ahóyéel’áágóó honishłǫ́
Yiską́ągo’ honishłǫ́
Dííjį́ honishłǫ́
Adą́´dą́ą́ honishłǫ́
Hodeeyáádą́ą́’ honishłǫ́
Saad shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii shí nishłį́
Saad diyinii díí shí nishłį́
Voice
In the beginning I am
Yesterday I am
Today I am
Tomorrow I am
Forever I am
Voice I am
Sacred voice I am
Sacred voice this I am
People think with me
People pray with me
People sing with me
People speak with me
People plan with me
People live with me
Voice I am
Sacred voice I am
Sacred voice this I am
I come in many forms
Because of me people think differently
Because of me people pray differently
Because of me people sing differently
Because of me people speak differently
Because of me people plan differently
Because of me people live differently
Voice I am
Sacred voice I am
Sacred voice this I am
I value different ways of living
I value different ways of doing
I value different soft goods
I value different hard goods
These are reasons why I gave myself over to the earth surface people
A holy people
A respected people
A compassionate people
When I sound from within them,
Without falling apart, life ceaselessly expands
These are reasons why I gave myself over to the earth surface people
Voice I am
Sacred voice I am
Sacred voice this I am
Forever I am
Tomorrow I am
Today I am
Yesterday I am
In the beginning I am
Voice I am
Sacred voice I am
Sacred voice this I am
MARGO TAMEZ (1962–), Lipan Apache, was born in Austin, Texas. She received her MFA in creative writing from Arizona State University and her PhD in American Studies from Washington State University. Her books include Alleys and Allies, Naked Wanting, and Raven Eye. Currently, Tamez is an associate professor in Indigenous Studies at the University of British Columbia.
My Mother Returns to Calaboz
The Lower Rio Grande, known as the Seno Mexicano (the Mexican Hollow or Recess), was a refuge for rebellious Indians from the Spanish presidios, who preferred outlawry to life under Spanish rule.
—Americo Paredes, With His Pistol in His Hand
The fragmented jawbones
and comblike teeth of seagulls
sometimes wash up from the gulf
to the levee of the river
and gather striated along the berms
where my grandfather irrigated sugarcane.
My mother, returned after forty years away,
walks there often,
hassled by INS agents
when she jogs by the river.
They think she runs away from them,
that she is an illegal,
Used to the invasion,
she asks them how they assume,
how exactly do they know
if she came from here, or there?
I am an indigenous woman,
born in El Calaboz, you understand?
she says loudly in Spanish,
and they tear out,
the truck wheels spinning furiously,
sand sprayed into the humid air.
When I was a girl walking on the levee,
I thought I saw gull teeth
chomping at the soil wall.
The air was dank steam,
the scent of sand, roots,
and something alive beneath the soil,
deeper and older than memory.
When I immersed my hand inside
the cloudy water,
it became a fluid form,
soft, something becoming,
something ancient.
The air is still heavy with heat and damp,
but smells like diesel and herbicides.
The scene reminds me of failed gestations.
My reproduction, the plants’, and the water’s,
each struggling in the same web of survival.
When I was a girl, my grandfather taught me
to put a small clump of soil in my mouth,
and to swallow it. I watched him.
Then I did.
I used to watch the gliding and swerves
of uprooted reeds in the river’s unhurried flow
to the Gulf.
I reached with all my body,
stomach on the bank of the levee,
hands and arms stretched out like an acrobat
to touch and grasp their slender stems.
Once, my feet pressed into the soupy bog,
and stepping up was the sound of gurgles,
like seaweed breathing.
Now, I think I’d like to be running with my mother
when she tells off la migra.
Listen to the bubbling duet of water and plant life,
listen to their sound,
closely.
Again and again.
ESTHER G. BELIN (1968–), Diné, multimedia artist and poet, was born in Gallup, New Mexico; grew up in Los Angeles, California; and now lives in Durango, Colorado. She earned degrees from the Institute of American Indian Arts, in Santa Fe; the University of California Berkeley; and Antioch University. Her first book, From the Belly of My Beauty, won the American Book Award; her second collection, Of Cartography, was published in 2017.
