When My Brother Was an Aztec by Natalie Diaz Page B

dresses.

    Yesterday’s pains scar over. The body is canvas—Picasso’s
    Guernica:
open palms, questions, the lamp’s faded red dress.

    We are black poplars at the foot of Sacromonte. They mistake
    salt for
azúcar,
these ants devouring us like magic red dresses.

    India
, give in to the shells chafing your shadowy thighs and belly
    while
Lucía Martínez
builds your evening pyre, your final red dress.

Of Course She Looked Back

    You would have, too.
    From that distance the shivering city
    fit in the palm of her hand
    like she owned it.

    She could’ve blown the whole thing—
    markets, dance halls, hookah bars—
    sent the city and its hundred harems
    tumbling across the desert
    like a kiss. She had to look back.

    When she did she saw
    pigeons glinting like debris above
    ruined rooftops. Towers swaying.
    Women in broken skirts
    strewn along burned-out streets
    like busted red bells.

    The noise was something else—
    dogs wept, roosters howled, children
    and guitars popped like kernels of corn
    feeding the twisting blaze.

    She wondered had she unplugged
    the coffeepot? The iron?
    Was the oven off?
    Her husband uttered,
Keep going.
    Whispered,
Stay the course,
or
    Baby, forget about it.
She couldn’t.

    Now a bursting garden of fire
    the city bloomed to flame after flame
    like hot fruit in a persimmon orchard.

    Someone thirsty asked for water.
    Someone scared asked to pray.
    Her daughters or the crooked-legged angel,
    maybe. Dark thighs of smoke opened
    to the sky. She meant to look
    away, but the sting in her eyes,
    the taste devouring her tongue,
    and the neighbors begging her name.

Apotheosis of Kiss

    I dipped my fingers in the candle wax at church—
    white votives shivered in red glass

    at the foot of la Virgen’s gown—
    glowing green-gold.

    The fever was fast—
    my body ablaze,

    I pulled back.
    Pale silk curved on each fingertip—

    peeling it away was like small gasps.
    The candles flickered—

    open mouths begging.
    Heretics banged at the double door.

    Charismatics paraded the aisles,
    twirling tapers, flinging Sunday hats.

    The Rapture came and went, left
    me, the choir’s bright robes,

    collection baskets like broken tambourines—
    What poverty, to never know,

    to never slide over the lip of a candle
    toward flame—raving to touch

    her bare brown toes.

Orange Alert

    There are certain words
    you can’t say in airports—
    words that mean bomb, blow up, jihad,
    hijack, terrorist, terrorism, terrorize,
    terrific fucking terror.
    And words like
orange
—
    small citrus grenades,
    laced with steel seeds, rinds lined
    with anthrax.
    Security cameras scan and scrutinize
    Californians. Floridians
    are profiled, picked for full-body
    fondlings—everyone knows Florida
    is the Axis of Oranges.
    Loudspeakers announce:
    All passengers’ navels
    must be covered or checked in baggage.
    Congress is considering mandatory
    navelectomies.
    Orange Alert paranoia eats away
    at the nation like a very hungry caterpillar.
    The Mexicans, known agents of oranges,
    are scared—taking to the streets, picketing,
    fighting for
naranjas
as if they were their own
    corazones.
They don’t understand—
    We don’t fly,
they say.
If we want to travel
    we borrow Tía Silvi’s minivan.
    Pamphlets flutter from the sky
    telling how to tell
    if someone’s a terrorist: They tell jokes
    with punch lines like:
    Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?
    Women with B cups, men with certain-
    sized crotches, even those with
    man-boobs, are squeezed, bobbled in search
    of forbidden fruits—questioned
    about stowed-away pomelos, tangelos,
    sun-kissed improvised explosive devices,
    quarters of tart dynamite.
    Orchards are napalmed.
    Homeland Security says,
Convert them all
    to parking lots. Go, men! Go!
    We’re out for blood oranges.
    Orange Aide to Third World fruit stands
    was canceled.
    The U.N. expunged
    the Oranges for