There is no word 'Ahwatukee' in the Crow language

by Devin Poleyumptewa 


I can always remember the stretch of the sun

drying out the pavement, suspended days,

someone flying down the back road, empty edge of the suburbs,

meeting their friends

in the brush, and dirt, and sand of the park.

Trees masquerading

as something alive.

I have always tricked myself

into seeing furious tidal waves

in the silhouettes of the mountains

as the setting sun gives them their blue tint.

Stucco walls and jaded concrete

lost in a wash of brown.

Where the storm of a father’s skin color

and a white kid’s claim

puts metal around your neck, drags you around.

I can’t try to see daylight in the brush of your mountains,

or your towering saguaros,

but I’ll say I will.

I’ll say I do, to stop the conversation

from going any further,

but the glaze of my eyes falls apart

at the same place the mountains touch

My endless desert sky,

I am not your daughter, 

don’t wrap me in your arms

as countless cars have wrapped themselves

around lonely telephone poles,

sending sirens into silence,

keeping a road of busted street lights company.

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