Read Online When My Brother Was an Aztec by Natalie Diaz - Free Book Online
Authors: Natalie Diaz
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Oil campaign.
It doesnât stop thereâ
patriot posses mow down highway cones,
the DOT revolted and wrecked their fleets
of clementine-colored trucks,
school crossing guards are mauled in their tangy vestsâ
beaten with Walk signs
by packs of anti-mandarin kindergarteners.
O.J. Simpsonâs in jail.
Tropicana sold out to V8.
Orange County is a mere smudge
in the West Coast sky.
Halloween was bannedâ
Jehovahâs Witnesses shake their heads
saying,
We told you so.
In the haze of this early winter,
blue flames engulf the cities.
Waitâwhatâs that you say?
Weâve been bumped to red alert?
But thatâs like apples and oranges.
The Elephants
Hast thou not seen how thy Lord dealt with the possessors of the elephant?
al-Fil, sura 105, Qurâan
My brother still hears the tanks
when he is angryâthey rumble like a herd of hot green
elephants over the plowed streets inside him, crash through
the white oleanders lining my parentsâ yard
during family barbecues, great scarred ears flapping, commanding
a dust storm that shakes blooms from the stalks like wrecked stars.
One thousand and one sleepless nights
bulge their thick skulls, gross elephant boots pummel
ice chests, the long barrels of their trunks crush cans of cheap beer
and soda pop in quick, sparkling bursts of froth,
and the meat on the grill goes to debris in the flames
while the rest of us cower beneath lawn chairs.
When the tusked animals in my brotherâs miserable eyes
finally fall asleep standing up, I find the nerve to ask him
what they sound like, and he tells me,
Itâs no hat dance,
and says that unless Iâve felt the bright beaks of ancient Stymphalian birds,
unless Iâve felt the color red raining from Heaven and marching
in my veins, Iâll never know the sound of war.
But I do know that since my brotherâs been back,
orange clouds hang above him like fruit made of smoke,
and he sways in trancelike pachyderm rhythm
to the sweet tings of death music circling
circling his head like an explosion of bluebottle flies
haloing himâ
Iâm no saint,
he sighs, flicking each one away.
He doesnât sit in chairs anymore and is always on his feet,
hovering by the window, peeking out the door,
Because,
he explains,
everyone is the enemy, even you, even me.
The heat from guns heâll never let go
rises up from his fists like a desert mirage, blurring
everything he tries to touch or holdâ If we cry
when his hands disappear like that, he laughs,
Those hands,
he tells us,
those little Frankensteins
were never my friends.
But before all this, I waited for him
as he floated down the airport escalator in his camouflage BDUs.
An army-issued duffel bag dangled from his shouldersâ
hot green elephants,
their arsenal of memory, rocking inside.
He was home. He was gone.
Why I Donât Mention Flowers When Conversations with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
WisÅawa Szymborska
In the Kashmir mountains,
my brother shot many men,
blew skulls from brown skins,
dyed white desert sand crimson.
What is there to say to a man
who has traversed such a world,
whose hands and eyes have
betrayed him?
Were there flowers there?
I asked.
This is what he told me:
In a village, many men
wrapped a woman in a sheet.
She didnât struggle.
Her bare feet dragged in the dirt.
They laid her in the road
and stoned her.
The first man was her father.
He threw two stones in a row.
Her brother had filled his pockets
with stones on the way there.
The crowd was a hive
of disturbed bees. The volley
of stones against her body
drowned out her moans.
Blood burst through the sheet
like a patch of violets,
a hundred roses in bloom.
The Beauty of a Busted Fruit
When we were children, we traced our knees,
shins, and elbows for the slightest hint of
It doesnât stop thereâ
patriot posses mow down highway cones,
the DOT revolted and wrecked their fleets
of clementine-colored trucks,
school crossing guards are mauled in their tangy vestsâ
beaten with Walk signs
by packs of anti-mandarin kindergarteners.
O.J. Simpsonâs in jail.
Tropicana sold out to V8.
Orange County is a mere smudge
in the West Coast sky.
Halloween was bannedâ
Jehovahâs Witnesses shake their heads
saying,
We told you so.
In the haze of this early winter,
blue flames engulf the cities.
Waitâwhatâs that you say?
Weâve been bumped to red alert?
But thatâs like apples and oranges.
The Elephants
Hast thou not seen how thy Lord dealt with the possessors of the elephant?
al-Fil, sura 105, Qurâan
My brother still hears the tanks
when he is angryâthey rumble like a herd of hot green
elephants over the plowed streets inside him, crash through
the white oleanders lining my parentsâ yard
during family barbecues, great scarred ears flapping, commanding
a dust storm that shakes blooms from the stalks like wrecked stars.
One thousand and one sleepless nights
bulge their thick skulls, gross elephant boots pummel
ice chests, the long barrels of their trunks crush cans of cheap beer
and soda pop in quick, sparkling bursts of froth,
and the meat on the grill goes to debris in the flames
while the rest of us cower beneath lawn chairs.
When the tusked animals in my brotherâs miserable eyes
finally fall asleep standing up, I find the nerve to ask him
what they sound like, and he tells me,
Itâs no hat dance,
and says that unless Iâve felt the bright beaks of ancient Stymphalian birds,
unless Iâve felt the color red raining from Heaven and marching
in my veins, Iâll never know the sound of war.
But I do know that since my brotherâs been back,
orange clouds hang above him like fruit made of smoke,
and he sways in trancelike pachyderm rhythm
to the sweet tings of death music circling
circling his head like an explosion of bluebottle flies
haloing himâ
Iâm no saint,
he sighs, flicking each one away.
He doesnât sit in chairs anymore and is always on his feet,
hovering by the window, peeking out the door,
Because,
he explains,
everyone is the enemy, even you, even me.
The heat from guns heâll never let go
rises up from his fists like a desert mirage, blurring
everything he tries to touch or holdâ If we cry
when his hands disappear like that, he laughs,
Those hands,
he tells us,
those little Frankensteins
were never my friends.
But before all this, I waited for him
as he floated down the airport escalator in his camouflage BDUs.
An army-issued duffel bag dangled from his shouldersâ
hot green elephants,
their arsenal of memory, rocking inside.
He was home. He was gone.
Why I Donât Mention Flowers When Conversations with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
WisÅawa Szymborska
In the Kashmir mountains,
my brother shot many men,
blew skulls from brown skins,
dyed white desert sand crimson.
What is there to say to a man
who has traversed such a world,
whose hands and eyes have
betrayed him?
Were there flowers there?
I asked.
This is what he told me:
In a village, many men
wrapped a woman in a sheet.
She didnât struggle.
Her bare feet dragged in the dirt.
They laid her in the road
and stoned her.
The first man was her father.
He threw two stones in a row.
Her brother had filled his pockets
with stones on the way there.
The crowd was a hive
of disturbed bees. The volley
of stones against her body
drowned out her moans.
Blood burst through the sheet
like a patch of violets,
a hundred roses in bloom.
The Beauty of a Busted Fruit
When we were children, we traced our knees,
shins, and elbows for the slightest hint of
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