Tacey M. Atsitty – Poetry
Paper Water
After SB 2109
X threads us into rope, a weave of human
arms, X-ed down a canyon wall. Voice
is not written when nights like these
call for complete night, without
scraps of light or dissonance or a stuttered
cry. Crumble of tree limbs: X, there
we are again. This is how far we climb
for life. We’d rub out before reaching
the ground, where water cuts—
Once a man had only water to pray with.
Once life is like the blur of a windmill,
each crisscross sets another arm
to bark. Cessation of the line; break
it up there. Article X: delineate marginal
arcs, say everything within windmill shot—
Whereas injury to water was writ
and concluded: how far into the earth
will you reach? Whereas for groundwater,
you steady your wrist for a slow up-stitch
across the eyelids.
Listen to Tacey Read Paper Water
* * *
Lace Sonnet
Like this vein:
webbed, glass
me a ribbon so rain,
so pearl in mass
or my wedding white
I see you at the crown
of my crux. Light
and petals veil, blown
this fringe. This leaf-
let face, let lips
drown the way. Your
coral neck, it zips
at the back: up
& down. My hand-cup—
Listen to Tacey Read Lace Sonnet
* * *
Sons of Carlisle
In circum, in house turning on wheels, dust
of morning. We spin to be the last— wallowing
—in line. Because a snake splits in half
or leaves its hole. Because we are no longer
a part of what’s left of the smooth. A son
altered to watch over each row of beads, glass
like the crisp diagonals of a snake shedding.
Do you see these marks? These marks
these insignia, these names: whorls right over
and quiets you. See how the wrist can roll
widely when completing a capitol O, in air
in name. When I speak my name from behind
the oculus, as do casualties of letters, head-
stones can’t cap words. In the speaking of our
own words. Dig and mounds and rows: skills
of how to chisel, to sign one’s name in stone
faces. Where from the wave of a fescue, one son
clicks with a lye tongue, spits bars, and lathers
new marks: Abraham, Albert, Edward, George,
Joseph, Isaac. And these are they who were
once taught to look, to pray with eyes
open. Boys— shed our childhood names,
so later we become man of our wives,
and stay sons to one. An altar of hair
half-bound half-loosed; fraying, falls second
to his feet. Final step is to brush him off
like clouting dust from your pant cuffs
and collars before stepping into the house.
Listen to Tacey Read Sons of Carlisle
* * *
Dilute
Spine, brain as yolk.
Promised to a full-
one. Blood
quantum. Pulse
fence, running.
Wind, to throw
an infant strapped
in cradle, to hide
and gallop away. Cut
off. Waving paper–
fanion of oxen
piss. The dead
animal so black,
says you go
to school. Steal
children. Take me
to substance, to
fallen spine, nuggets
of bone. In these waves
we were taught to walk,
with word, this paper
crinkle, wave ring white
another massacre of names.
Suck the marrow ink
curls water. Mothers left
heaps & howls in sand—
step in rain, on stone.
The white finally steps
out of brown. The native
stirred to cream.
Kill the Indian, Save the Man
A runaway crusted with snow—
whirled away from letters.
Rain gives an edge, eraser.
Look for signs. They tell you
where to sit, trace the angels
smooth into one. Extend
your palm like this, it means:
You give me water.
* * *
Tacey M. Atsitty, Diné, from Cove, Arizona is Tsénahabiłnii (Sleep Rock People) and born for Ta’neeszahnii (Tangle People). She is a recipient of the Truman Capote Creative Writing Fellowship, the Corson-Browning Poetry Prize, and Morning Star Creative Writing Award. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Cornell University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Crazyhorse, Florida Review, New Orleans Review, Drunken Boat, New Poets of the American West Anthology, and other publications. Her chapbook is Amenorrhea (Counting Coup Press).
[ Previous | Table of Contents | Next ]
As Us 