Natalie Diaz

they remember what their god whispered

into their ribs: Wake up and ache for your life.

Until then, we touch our bodies like wounds—

the war never ended and somehow begins again.

These Hands, If Not Gods
Haven’t they moved like rivers—

like glory, like light—

over the seven days of your body?

Finally, a sin worth hurting for, a fervor,

a sweet—You are mine.

And we won by doing what all Indians before us had done against their bigger, whiter opponents—we became coyotes and rivers, and we ran faster than their fancy kicks could, up and down the court, game after game. We became the weather—we blew by them, we rained buckets, we lit up the gym with our moves.

learned to make guns of our hands, and we pulled the trigger on jumpers all damn day. And when they talked about the way we played, they called it, Run’n’gun, and it made them tired before they ever stepped on the court.

A good window lets the outside participate.

Remind yourself, your friends.

They are only light because we are dark.

If we didn’t exist, it wouldn’t be long before

they had to invent us. Like the light switch.

The war ended

depending on which war you mean

There are wildflowers in my desert

which take up to twenty years to bloom.