DiaBLOGue

The Body of the Lord’s Fair Night

Florence Gradon was a good-looking girl, but her looks were nine out of ten parts spirit. Her skirts swung just so, while she danced, her brown hair liked its ribbons fine, and the great good…

Oasis

At dusk, the pool waits in silence, 
found by your feet after you rip up 
the map. Suddenly in the tangled grasses
and twilight the birds stop calling, 
and the trees finger your face. 

Desert Bloom

There are no maybes in the desert; 
you have to be lizard-quick or shrivel and die. 
The Rio Grande is muddy from its occasional pause,
here where survival is yes or no. 

Stake Mission

Their place was a junkyard with Joshuas,
and they’d play Mom and Pop 

to any delinquent on the desert. 
We’d be forever having

Laban’s Ghost: On Writing and Transgression

In his 1955 classic work, Tristes Tropiques, French anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss recorded a story of unintended social impact evoked by his introduction of writing to the illiterate Nambikwara of tropical Brazil. Several days after Levi-Strauss…

Kayenta

Summers we paint relocation houses 
on the res, beige and grey, 
“Navajo white/’ our brushes dripping
Dutch Boy on red Arizona earth. 

Moon Phases: Childhood

when it topped the mountains 
the shell of moon laid down 
            such plenty 
                        all over the fields