They grow too aware of crowns, spend 

evenings rinsing and rinsing, water boiled 

with oils and herbs left to cool 

alongside chicken and grains. The women 

send their children to work, on themselves 

or the house, and steam their scalps.

I dream of my father but don’t know what he says. 

It’s kind. I share rice and other grains with a man. 

I hand him light in my kitchen. 

He takes it and my belly cools.

I prefer not to write about love.

I prefer not to write about my body.

My father’s love, my mother’s body.

Both regenerate with astounding speed.

At times, I find myself in an ancient pose.

In a café, I make my arms a bow

and look up, as if an arrow will appear

at an absurd angle. I mark a line 

from privacy to throat, trace the dark line 

under my bellybutton. Maybe someone 

took my astral baby. Maybe I birthed the man

who denied me. Maybe he had to deny me

to avoid a crime. I don’t point my fingers.

I’m convinced our fate is determined 

in part by water, that we can’t avoid walking by 

or being near a body of it, however we plan our travel. 

That showers are prescribed before birth. 

How many things have I missed 

letting my wet bangs touch my eyelashes, 

singing into a stream?

I hope to God you will not ask me to go anywhere except my own country. If we go back, we will follow whatever orders you give us. We do not want to go right or left, but straight back to our own land.

          —Barboncito

I hope to God you will not ask

Me or my People to send

Postcard greetings: lamented wind

Of perfect sunrisings, golden

Yes, we may share the same sun setting

But the in-between hours are hollow

The People fill the void with prayers for help

Calling upon the Holy Ones

Those petitions penetrate and loosen

The binds you tried to tighten

Around our heart, a tension

Blocking the wind, like a shell

Fluttering inside, fluttering inside

To pray you open your whole self

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon

To one whole voice that is you.

And know there is more

That you can't see, can't hear,

Can't know except in moments

Steadily growing, and in languages

That aren't always sound but other

Circles of motion.

Like eagle that Sunday morning

Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky

In wind, swept our hearts clean

With sacred wings.

We see you, see ourselves and know

That we must take the utmost care

And kindness in all things.

Breathe in, knowing we are made of

All this, and breathe, knowing

We are truly blessed because we

Were born, and die soon within a

True circle of motion, 

Like eagle rounding out the morning

Inside us. 

We pray that it will be done

In beauty.

In beauty.

Translated by B. Deutsch and A. Yarmolinsky

What will you do, God, when I die?

I am your jar (if cracked, I lie?)

Your well-spring (if the well go dry?)

I am your craft, your vesture I—

You lose your purport, losing me.

When I go, your cold house will be

Empty of words that made it sweet.

I am the sandals your bare feet

Will seek and long for, wearily.

Your cloak will fall from aching bones.

Your glance, that my warm cheeks have cheered

As with a cushion long endeared,

Will wonder at a loss so weird;

And, when the sun has disappeared,

Lie in the lap of alien stones.

What will you do, God? I am feared.