• New Poetry by Indigenous Women

    Featuring Esther G Belin, Paige Buffington, Sasha LaPointe, and Erika T. Wurth.
    Curated by Natalie Diaz

    In my Mojave culture, many of our songs are maps, but not in the sense of an American map. Mojave song-maps do not draw borders or boundaries, do not say this is knowable, or defined, or mine. Instead our maps use language to tell about our movements and wonderings (not wanderings) across a space, naming what has happened along the way while also compelling us toward what is waiting to be discovered, where we might go and who we might meet or become along the way.

    This feature of indigenous women is meant to be like those song-maps, to offer myriad ways of “poetic” and linguistic experience—a journeys through or across memory, or imagination, across pain or joy or the impossibility of each, across our bodies of land and water and flesh and ink—an ever-shifting, ever-returning, ever-realizing map of movement, of discovery, of possibility, of risk—of indigenous and native poetry. It is my luck to welcome you to this indigenous space and invite you into the conversations of these poems, languages, imageries and wonders. In this installment of the bi-monthly feature, I’m pleased to share the work of Esther G Belin, Paige Buffington, Sasha LaPointeand Erika Wurth (full bios below).

    –’Ahotk, Natalie Diaz



    The Winter Pantry

    New Year falls in the middle of a blizzard
    gales of razor-edged snowflakes forming
    mounds, the impression of earth resting

    sleeping like an elder
    purifying pockets of air
    sacrarium creation stories
    harvesting winter

    Grocery list:

    adequate yearly progress
    standardized insertions
    simulated tests
    cedar-filled sachets
    snow-drift blessings

    the seasonal workers forming
    single-file lines, their expression
    drafted into another 6-pack packaged

        and warehoused within pliable aluminum walls

    the ingestion of tin can meals
    asphyxiation with gas-permeable coating
    fills the winter
    pantry, an assembly
    of snowflakes within the blizzard
    the crease in the origami

    dollar bill paper crane

    scars the stomach
    lining, a benumbed tumble along the spine
    a rearranged synapse, razor-edged
    surge, obedient like the Indian Agent
    issuing rations



    We could see some mountain I didn’t know the name of where some adventures had recently gone to…    Dean Young, “A Student in the Distant Land”
    We could see some mountain I didn’t know
    only heard the name repeated several times
    in a tribal tongue I could not speak
    but rather spit the syllables, like a
    a non-sensical special place, like
    uncovering a child’s
    hidden handiwork

    Today I will use those words, not just repeat them
    like they make you do in school
    Today those words will save my life
    I will stand in front of an audience where no one
    speaks the saliva-weighted lingua, then
    I will tell the story of one tribe and how
    we all came to be sitting in this one room
    at this particular time, babbling on a blabber
    like freshly creamed buttery smooth
    vernacular, sonical chimes massaging the vertebrae
    erotic, erudite as low tide observations
    and now we all just go with the flow
    of the ocean’s great rhythm

    splash, splash, splashy, crash
    splash, splash, splashy, crash
    crash, splashy, splash



    At the Red Lights

    With hands wrapped around a motionless steering wheel,
    all white-knuckled and near shaking,
    dad pressed his polished boot into the brake,
    stomped with the other too near
    the gas pedal I wondered
    what places he had to get to,
    what sort of business my hometown’s neon offers white-
    collared men, wondered
    why he chose to stay here.

    At this standstill, we watched
    a group dance across the street,
    move a gold, liquid sun between bandaged and
    rope-burnt hands.
    One man tipped the bottleneck toward a headlight-lit
    wound, we watched gold
    fill the purple reservoir
    splitting his cheek in two I watched a tooth
    fall, my dad shake his head, heard him mutter while I
    traced the man’s cross country build, this figure
    with my fingers, wondered
    which distance he ran in his youth, the six
    mile muddied path behind the truck stops,
    or the thirty mile run from Zuni into town I
    recognized a face beneath one hood,
    her profile like lightning I once traced
    the initials needle-dotted behind
    her ear in Junior High, studied its pattern when she moved
    this curtain, this rivering
    of long black hair I
    thought of canyon’s watermarks, hoped
    the fading letters belonged to her grandmother’s name or
    a scripture similar to that I
    watched her throw her head back in laughter,
    that same hair shining with traffic light—I

    wished them a safe place to sleep—

    wished for them to head home soon.

    I wished for the red light to switch to green.
    I hoped this hiss heard between the stomping was something in the car,
    not my father’s muttering, hoped it was
    the engine rattling—
    or an animal even,
    a snake or cottontail my dad found, maybe
    one he injured or caught on the hike we were coming from.

    I asked him if he counted the rooms of Chaco Canyon,
    to tell me of swamplands, his childhood—
    but didn’t care if he counted,
    didn’t care how many of Pueblo Bonito’s rock rooms opened
    for the Southwest’s deep purple sky I
    believed in their secrets, but didn’t want to hear his hissing,
    or about the animals he placed in coffee cans,
    didn’t want to picture them coiled and uncoiling
    themselves to shake grinds out of scales,
    didn’t want to know how long they lived
    outside the reeds and waterways they were pulled from—

    But this thought of water,
    of sun-warmed bellies, the winding pattern snakes leave in river sand
    led me to think of the weekend before,
    how softly this fighter from the valley said he had things to show me,
    the precision with which he pulled a pocketknife
    from a pressed shirt pocket to cut
    an apple still green and bruised
    with wild into crescents—

    how softly he placed the pieces on my tongue,
    hands shaking as if he were going to break
    them with his calloused, barbed-wire cut hands, softly as if
    they were moon-shaped gems pulled straight from the sky—

    And with these same hands he showed me how to throw
    punches at ghosts by the river, how to get an enemy
    to the ground, the ways you twist
    their bodies around your chest, he threw
    me over his shoulder to run his hands up the Achilles,
    from the curves of the calf up and up—

    And from this riverbank
    he led me to a one-bedroom house
    to meet his grandfather,
    to sit on the bed they still shared
    and asked me to read to him, to them, to stop—
    to repeat the words like cedar and meadow, cicada.
    Cicada, cicada, their voices rang out after mine I
    told them we believed the iron-shelled, winged insects shielded
    the people from arrows when we were moving up, up into
    this shining world, the grandfather
    said Yes. I think I’ve seen those scars—

    My father pressed the gas at the click of the lights—
    asked why I asked about abandoned canyons I
    said that I remembered reading about something,
    or maybe I told him that I was only curious never
    telling him I was hungry,
    that I have always been hungry for a green light, for home,
    for people who learn lessons from streets
    from fists or from horses—

    That I’ve always been afraid he doesn’t have a song in him,
    no sweet, sweet notes to cover that hissing in his throat.



    Grandma sat in the back-most room.

    The room caught the trailer’s heat, the strongest signal. We unfolded chairs, stacked cardboard boxes, squeezed our smaller-selves into the blanket-draped places—used crochet needles as microphones pretended to be country stars. At times, we opened our arms to fly—shirts lifted, us spinning, showing our white bellies just as the hawks did in our rectangle of the sky.

    We loved the language spilling from AM radio, All Navajo All The Time and everything animal-shaped. We crawled on all fours, held our breath until we turned blue. We peeked through moth and mouse holes in the blankets, watched her stitch landscapes, palominos into pillowcases. We learned the mountain songs, her shuffle, traced the patterns her skirt left in floor-dust, hummed to the sound of plastic lids peeling off plastic boxes—crawled until she caught our legs, pulled us against her while she cleaned our ears, blew the dead skin off the bobby pins—held us until she was sure her girls were listening.

    First, there was only a little static, a small snow. We were able to ignore it—collected restaurant suckers and made pictures with pushpins, listened to old country and trucks kick up dust on the road, waited for new seasons. Sweat crawled down our temples, broke apart on shoulders and knees, stirring her from sleep. She asked for the names of family places, Bitter Springs and Red Mesa, listened closely, brown paper eyelids opened behind yellowed lenses to make sure her girls were too.

    She yelled at small storms, trains, blamed the static on lost satellites. She said that it was getting worse but we heard voices and words the same—Turn where white marks are carved into the edge. We rearranged furniture and dusted antennas, stood on the trailer’s roof and raised our arms, mimicked telephone poles and radio towers, changed batteries, ran aluminum up corners, along the ceiling.

    She made us take down the clubhouse, keep our bellies covered. I can’t clean up after you girls anymore and we unbraided our hair.

    We stopped searching for glass beads and buttons and started counting coughs, pink fingers just under her nose to make sure she was still breathing.

    We clung to everything we knew through the static. Bingo. Room. Táláwosh. Star. Hospital and North. A deep-snow covered the satellites, and we thought of words we used to say


    January 31, 1991

    She woke in the belly of a bordertown night. Soft snow shifted over quiet sidewalks. Winter stars scattered in constellation-forms. The insides of her hands rested warm on a swollen belly.

    Eight-thousand miles from her lowered eyelids, from the fingerprinted glass of water collecting dust on her nightstand, a bomb shattered the breath that bridged a man to a woman whose ribcage stretched over his heart like wings expanding in winter light. They slept inches and dream-worlds apart. One thousand one. One thousand two. He trapped himself in a dream of his father’s wind-worn skin and cigar-stained teeth. His ghost smoked in a rust-tinged car that began to shake, shake until he pointed and they watched the sun explode. Light bloomed behind eyelids, curtains. Heat spilled into the paper room. Open.

    Calloused thumbs traced a newborn’s mouth. They waited to see their reflections swim in the black seas of her new eyes, to unfold her hands like tiny maps. She yawned. Jets cracked early-morning clouds. Prayers ran through engines. A boy in California dreamt that every animal on Earth had died. A war played on every station.

    An older relative went searching for the cows. He never liked hospitals, machines made him ache between his lungs, and stayed behind. He waited for the new-one at home as those who went to see her wiped washboard dust off their shoes, their faces. Everyone took turns opening her hands. Open your hands, stretch, open for all the world to come crawling.


    What he should have had

    It’s not fair
    says my brother talking
    at me over his pint glass

    I belong on a yacht
    we had that you know
    we had a yacht

    we never had a yacht
    you mean one of mom’s boyfriends did
    I poke at the red-filmed ice
    of my spent Bloody Mary

    I order another as my brother
    continues his story
    of what we should have had

    all that shit
    he says
    those rich guys
    those condos
    in the city

    but she moved us
    to Swinomish

    at this there is a long sigh
    an eye roll another beer
    in his fist and he drinks
    it angrily

    and I am noticing
    how handsome
    my brother is
    his pitch colored hair
    his jaw his big smile
    how he looks like
    like Freddy Prinze Jr.
    in some romantic comedy
    made for teenagers
    in the nineties
    driving back up the coast
    to our ancestral home
    I sleep in the woods
    send him pictures of whales
    and a roadside motel
    we stayed in
    as kids

    but he is busy
    with his list
    of all the things
    we should have had

    he is writing them down
    and marking them off

    when we say goodbye
    I watch my older brother
    try not to cry

    I tell him
    to be less angry

    but it’s too late
    my brother has already
    pulled out his boning knife

    look what happened to you

    he repeats it

    he carves a fish
    shaped hole

    right into me

    look what happened to you


    Lifting The Sky

    in the distance
    the clouds begin to fall
    grey rain too far
    to matter

    oceanward it has gone dark
    everywhere but here circle
    of camp fire crackling orange
    against a roar of waves

    against that rain
    against world’s end
    an island sits quiet
    keeps the dead in its trees

    Elder Island
    said a man on the beach
    camera around his neck
    boy at his knees poking starfish

    said you can kayak around it
    get real close to its shores
    I turn away pull the hood
    of my sweatshirt up covering my face

    now the sky is black
    the waves only exist
    because we can hear them
    beyond the driftwood

    my grandmother
    tells how the people
    worked together
    and I know the story

    could recite it from memory
    but I like the sounds
    of Lushootseed
    of English

    I do not interrupt
    I do not stop her
    I do not say
    I’ve heard this one
    I know how it ends
    I finish the last
    bit of whisky

    from the metal mug
    drop it to the sand
    and I hear the click
    of cassette tape

    the two speakers that carry
    her voice go to static
    as I rewind and press play
    one more time

    and though it’s quiet
    they’re always out there
    with that big pole
    saying all together now

    as they get the sky up
    where it belongs
    and lift the world
    out of darkness



    You Have a Son, I Remember

    You have a son, I remember, when I think of you on that mountain, dreaming since your death. You have a son, and he does not know the things I do about you, how you pushed down on my strange red heart, your soft brown face, the way you looked at me that day in Seattle, your long brown eyes full of danger, the gun, you said, you were going to sell, more for fun than money. You have a son, I remember, thinking of you there now, frozen in time, as beautiful as the day that I met you, buried in snow because you didn’t want to pay a fee for climbing, that’s how you were until you died, alone on that mountain. You have a son, I remember, who unlike me does not really remember his father, at least his memories, though milky, might be sweet. You have a son, I remember, I remember, Mark, I remember so much, your hands, their cruelty, how they would touch, always in the fire, how sure you were that you could never die, how much you wanted to have a child with me, though I could not be convinced. You have a son, I remember, and I wonder if he looks up at Mt. Rainer and sees you like I do, trapped in that golden light that only exists in his dreams, and mine.


    You Are Ghost that Never Lived

    This is it, those final years, the last, where something could come from inside me, and inside him, and become something I have only hoped for, a child, like the one inside my head that has been living there for years. She is in a cradleboard, so small, her black hair a living thing. Then she lives on a rug, maybe the Pendleton my grandmother gave her husband, she is playing on it, she puts a toy to her mouth.

    See, you were real once, but you left, your name still floats inside me/Olivia/I have never known abandonment like this. Sometimes there were men and sometimes they walked away, but no matter how much it burned, like something coming off of the flesh, something consecrated, permeant but somehow not a wound, it didn’t scar. But this /Olivia/ has broken me, it has scarred, it has burned, it has left me bare.

    Now, you are living inside the teenage girl I see in the ice cream shop. I am old enough to know that she could’ve been mine, her long brown hair swinging. Her smile, like mine. /Olivia/ that was your name. /Olivia/ I feel your presence more than I do most people I pass in the street. You are a ghost that never lived except in me /Olivia/.

    Esther G. Belin is an award-winning Diné poet and multimedia artist. She is a graduate of the University of California, Berkeley, the Institute of American Indian Arts, and Antioch University. Her latest volume of poetry, Of Cartography, examines identity politics, checkerboard land status, and the interplay of words (abstraction) and image (realism).  In 2000, she won the American Book Award for her first book of poetry, From the Belly of My Beauty.  Her writing has appeared in outlets including Wicazo Sa Review, BOMB, Democracy Now!, and Studies in American Indian Literatures. She considers the following locations her homeland: LA, Durango, Diné bike’yah.  Her writing and art grows from and is an offering to the collective humanity, bila’ ashdla’ii. 

    Paige Buffington’s family is originally from Tohatchi, New Mexico, a small town on the Eastern portion of the Navajo Nation. She is Navajo, of the Bear Enemies clan born for White People. She received a BFA in Creative Writing from the Institute of American Indian Arts in 2013 and an MFA with a focus in poetry in 2015. Her work has appeared in Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art, and Hinchas de Poesia, Narrative, and Yellow Medicine ReviewShe currently lives in Gallup, New Mexico where she works as an elementary educator.

    Sasha LaPointe is from the Upper Skagit and Nooksack Indian Tribe. Native to the Pacific Northwest, she draws inspiration from her coastal heritage as well as from her life in the city of Seattle. She writes with a focus on trauma and resilience, ranging topics from PTSD, sexual violence, the work her great grandmother did for the Coast Salish language revitalization, to loud basement punk shows and what it means to grow up mixed heritage. Her work has appeared in Hunger Mountain, The Rumpus Literary Journal, Indian Country Today, Luna Luna Magazine, The Yellow Medicine Review, The Portland Review, AS/Us Journal, THE Magazine, and Aborted Society Online Zine. She has recently graduated with an MFA through The Institute of American Indian Arts with a focus on creative nonfiction and poetry.

    Erika T. Wurth’s publications include a novel, Crazy Horse’s Girlfriend, two collections of poetry and a collection of short stories, Buckskin Cocaine. Her novel You Who Enter Here is forthcoming from SUNY. A writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, she teaches creative writing at Western Illinois University and has been a guest writer at the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals including Boulevard, Drunken Boat, The Writer’s Chronicle, Waxwing and The Kenyon Review. She is represented by Peter Steinberg. She is Apache/Chickasaw/Cherokee and was raised outside of Denver.

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