For my Mary Morez
Sarah Liese
The two poems are about Sarah's matriarch, Mary Morez. Mary was a world renowned Diné painter. The "Mary Morez Style" has been a significant influence in the development of other contemporary Indian painters.
Criss Cross Angel
A gray curtain of clouds parted
and let the streaks of light
kiss my skin. My amá sání,
she was amongst the sunlight
and the docile droplets of rain
the very day the church bells rang.
I was only seven, and
I had never known loss,
so mom pulled my hair back,
planted a kiss on my brow,
and led me down the symmetrical
aisle. We claimed our territory
in the southwest of the sanctuary,
and I burrowed myself under
mother’s thin, bird-like arms.
She offered safety, but terror
I took, unable to comprehend
the rapidness of death.
Her doleful, almond eyes,
blinked tears, and I felt every,
single one. It stung as if a
burnt edge was digging deeper
into my skin, and all I could do
was observe. Is that how
Grandmother felt lifting herself
up from her crutches only to
come back down? Armpits sore.
Body restricted from that foreign word.
Foreign, even to the Natives,
well at least to the Navajo Nation in 1940.
Father squeezed my arm,
signaling that it was my turn to read.
I marched up to the podium,
looking straight ahead at the microphone.
I wanted to be strong like grandmother.
I wanted to earn the respect of both worlds.
Flickering eyelids, then silence.
The reading ceased. My voice muted.
Then music soared, side to side, like a hawk,
grandmother’s reincarnation animal.
Bear you on the breath of dawn
And make you to shine like the sun
The flute married the gentle voices.
I trembled at the funeral flowers,
outlining the brightly colored canvas
grandmother once masterfully crafted.
Criss-cross lines across the painting,
intersecting figures connecting her two
separate realms. Then just like that
the flute faded, and the the rain
turned into in a steady hum.
Tan, Native faces hugged mom.
Eccentric artists waved their hands
on her back. And when they disappeared,
father opened up the heavy
wooden doors, and we left.
Amongst The Beauty
My grandmother wove
a corn maiden rug
to wish the invaders
a healthy harvest
One brown strand
Over
One white strand
One white strand
Over
One brown strand
The finished product
resting in their
white
bloody
hands
To them,
an attractive rug
To my grandmother,
a piece of her soul
But amongst it all,
There is beauty.
For amongst beauty, there must be love.
* * *
Amongst the beauty, I wipe away your tears, still damp from the avaricious invasion.
Amongst the beauty, we are mocked by the leader of our stolen land.
Amongst the beauty, he is hungry for our Bears Ears and stomping down
our Grand Staircase.
Amongst the beauty, water shall always be sacred for no pipeline shall be the
thief of survival.
Amongst the beauty, I wait for the sun to dry out the sorrow that has been dug
deep within our canyons.
Amongst the beauty, I sprint every morning to amplify the strength in
womanhood
Amongst the beauty, I ignore the degrading stares they give me like I’m a
mouthwatering piece of mutton
they placed over the fire
just to watch my hózhó
burn.
Amongst the beauty, I yearn to march proud with the fluorescent torch in
hand, shining as the
Sparkle Upon The Water
my amá sání imagined
me to be.
Amongst the beauty, we shall walk with the heavy load they placed upon our
shoulders, defining our
features and blooming
our resilience.
Amongst the beauty, we shall dance lively on the trail marked with pollen.
Amongst the beauty, nothing shall hinder us anymore.
“My grandmother was a such a strong woman, with whom I’ve felt a deep connection with all my life. Lately, she’s inspired my poetry, and I felt it would only be right to incorporate her artwork alongside my poetry.”