When My Brother Was an Aztec Read Free

prairie schooners
    sailing a flat black sky, moons hot white
    on the blue-flamed stove of the earth, and they were good.

    Some tortillas wandered the dry ground
    like bright tribes, others settled through the floury ceiling
    el cielo de mis sueños,
hovering above our tents,
    over our beds—floppy white Frisbees, spinning, whirling
    like project merry-go-rounds—they were fruitful and multiplied,
    subduing all the beasts, eyeteeth, and bellies of the world.

    How we prayed to the tortilla god: to roll us up
    like burritos—tight and fat
como porros
—to hold us
    in His lips, to be ignited, lit up luminous with Holy Spirit
    dancing on the edge of a table, grooving all up and down
    the gold piping of the green robe of San Peregrino—
    the saint who keeps the black spots away,

    to toke and be token, carried up up
    away in tortilla smoke, up to the steeple
    where the angels and our grandpas live—
    porque nuestras madres nos dijeron que viven allí—
    high to the top that is the bottom, the side, the side,
    the space between, back to the end that is the beginning—

    a giant ball of
masa
rolling, rolling, rolling down,
    riding hard the arc of earth—gathering rocks, size, lemon
    trees, Joshua trees, creosotes, size, spray-painted
    blue bicycles rusting in gardens, hunched bow-legged grandpas in white
    undershirts that cover cancers whittling their organs like thorns
    and thistles, like dark eyes wide open, like sin—leaving behind
    bits and pieces of finger-sticky dough grandmas mistake
    for Communion
y toman la hostia
—it clings to their ribs
    like gum they swallowed in first grade.

    The grandmas return from
misa,
with full to the brim
    estómagos
and overflowing souls, to empty homes.
    They tie on their aprons. Between their palms they sculpt and caress,
    stroke and press, dozens and dozens of tortillas—stack them
    from basement to attic, from wall to wall, crowding closets,
    jamming drawers, filling cupboards and
el vacío.

    At night they kiss ceramic statues of Virgin Marys,
    roll rosary beads between their index fingers and thumbs,
    weep tears prettier than holy water—
    sana sana colita de rana si no sanas ahora sanarás mañana—
    When they wake they realize frogs haven’t had tails in ages,
    they hope gravity doesn’t last long, and they wait—
    y esperan y esperan y esperamos
—to be carried up up—anywhere—
    on round white magic carpets and tortilla smoke.

Reservation Mary

    Mary Lambert was born at the Indian hospital on the rez.
    She never missed a 3-pointer in the first thirteen years of her life.
    She started smoking pot in seventh grade, still, never missed
    a 3-pointer, but eventually missed most of her freshman classes
    and finally dropped out of high school.

    A year or so later, a smooth-faced Mojave who had a jump shot
    smoother than a silver can of commodity shortening and soared
    for rebounds like he was made of red-tailed hawk feathers
    visited her rez for a money tournament. His team won the money,
    and he won MVI—Most Valuable Indian.

    Afterward, at the little bar on the corner of Indian Route 1,
    where the only people not allowed to drink were dialysis patients,
    he told Mary she was his favorite, his first string,
    that he’d dropped all those buckets for her. He spent his entire cut
    of the tournament winnings on her Wild Turkey ’n’ Cokes,
    told her he was going to stay the night with her, even though
    it was already morning when they stumbled from the bar.

    He stayed and stayed and stayed, then left—
    her heart felt pierced with spears and arrows, and her belly swelled
    round as an August melon.

    That was a lifetime ago. Now, she’s seventeen. She kept the baby
    and the weight and sells famous frybread and breakfast burritos
    at tribal entities on pay days—tortillas round and chewy as Communion
    wafers embracing commod cheese and government potatoes,
    delivered in