{"product_id":"golden-ax-isbn-9780143137139","title":"Golden Ax","description":"\u003cb\u003eLonglisted for the 2022 National Book Award for Poetry\u003cbr\u003eLonglisted for the 2023 PEN Open Book Award\u003cbr\u003eFinalist for the Poetry Society of America's Norma Farber First Book Award\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Outstanding . . . the poetry in these pages is intelligent, lyrical, as invested in the past as the present and future with witty nods to pop culture.” —Roxane Gay, author of \u003ci\u003eHunger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“I’ve never read anything like it. Truly a sublime experience.” —Jason Reynolds, author of \u003ci\u003eAin’t Burned All the Bright\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA groundbreaking collection about Afropioneerism past and present from Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Rio Cortez\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom a visionary writer praised for her captivating work on Black history and experience comes a poetry collection exploring personal, political, and artistic frontiers, journeying from her family's history as \"Afropioneers\" in the American West to shimmering glimpses of transcendent, liberated futures. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn poems that range from wry, tongue-in-cheek observations about contemporary life to more nuanced meditations on her ancestors—some of the earliest Black pioneers to settle in the western United States after Reconstruction—\u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e invites readers to re-imagine the West, Black womanhood, and the legacies that shape and sustain the pursuit of freedom.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003eLonglisted for the National Book Award in Poetry\u003cbr\u003eNamed one of the Best Books of 2022 by \u003ci\u003eThe Houston Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eNamed one of the \"Books We Love\" by NPR\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With a careful balance of lyric and detail, Cortez considers the pursuit of freedom passed down to her . . . [and] shows us how looking back can be beautiful and how claiming that past is the loudest celebration of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR, “Books We Love” \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e] advances an intriguing, revolutionary argument: that the present is not simply a product of what has come before, but engaged in a constant, generative conversation with the past; that the past, in some ways, might be formed by what is to come. Sinuous and beautifully crafted, even the negative space on these pages transmits a complementary narrative of loss and yearning. Cortez alters both her own past, and ours, by acknowledging her people, integrating them into our present tense, and projecting them into a future in which true freedom might be possible.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tope Folarin, \u003ci\u003eVulture \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cortez examines how her family came to the American West after Reconstruction—and reimagines the landscape through the lens of Black people who both embody and defy its realities. In the process, we are pushed to envision our own futures on the frontier, united by a collective aspiration to freedom.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Essence\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Outstanding . . . the poetry in these pages is intelligent, lyrical, as invested in the past as the present and future with witty nods to pop culture.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Roxane Gay, author of \u003ci\u003eHunger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cortez maps untrodden historical and speculative terrain in poems of stunning breadth and intimacy in this exquisite debut . . . reflecting on class, race, and womanhood with wit and lyrical subtlety . . . Unflinching and generous, this bold collection opens new vistas in contemporary Black poetry.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review) \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] terrific debut collection . . . Cortez can be brutally honest and unsettlingly witty.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Ron Charles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"Golden Ax \u003c\/i\u003eis a master class in the use of popular culture to critique the foundations on which that culture is built. Plus, it’s a lot of fun.\"\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe California Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[These] poems are witty, weighty, and often profoundly radical in their approach to what has been and what may be to come.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eAlta \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A gift to spark new ways of looking at our pasts . . . Throughout this ambitious collection, Cortez tangles with themes of genealogy and religion while evoking the other­worldly landscape of the American West . . . Through poems that probe the often painful connections between past and present, Cortez finds new ways of moving forward.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eComplicate your shit\u003c\/i\u003e, I hear myself saying more and more these days, about our two-dimensional, simplifying, reductive thinking to most everything worth thinking hard about, and so imagine my delight, or something heartier than delight, my relief, my gratitude, at Rio Cortez’s beautiful book, \u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e, which, I love—I mean, I love this book—for its sensuous, chiseled language; for all the trees and plants (aster, bluestem, birchwood, hibiscus); for its weird and brainy sense of humor; for its palpable yearning and need; and for its entangled, complicated, unfixable, and unfixing blackness. Its unsettled and unsettling blackness. Which is really just to say: its blackness. I am so grateful for this book, and this voice, and this heart, in the world.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Ross Gay, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Delights\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e is a mirror maze where every poem elongates or widens the reader. Though Cortez leads us through a personal journey that embodies the distortion of the archived and the imagined, I couldn't help but feel at the end of it that I'd been in congress with some of my own lesser-recognized selves. I've never read anything like it. Truly a sublime experience.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jason Reynolds, author of \u003ci\u003eAin't Burned All the Bright\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A game changer. Cortez is without a doubt one of the most brilliant writers I've ever read. This book will be talked about for decades—it's canon . . . Poetry needs [Cortez's] voice—lullaby, chant, call for change, song, wind—to save a home-truth place for us in the universe, past, future, and present. \u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e is a seismic achievement, a cosmic-level work of art.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Brenda Shaughnessy, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Octopus Museum\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e is as omnipresent as scripture. Rio’s location as poet, archivist, lover, mother, and citizen is where Blackness as sound and organic synthesis meet. Insistent with cataloging our fullest existence: Black life, Black leisure, Black peace, and Black joy, \u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e is an integral study and acknowledgment of a historically scattered, generationally wounded people. Rio traverses between tanning bed reclamations, Cuba observations, the weight of her beloved’s eyes, and the findings of the afro-futurist body thriving in a natural world. This collection is the grace we don’t deserve, but will love wholly as we earn the weight of its bounty.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Mahogany L. Browne, author of \u003ci\u003eVinyl Moon\u003c\/i\u003e and poet-in-residence at Lincoln Center\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eGolden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e, Rio Cortez communes with language and land on her own terms. Airy and spacious but dense in complexity and intention, this book wrestles with and falls in love with its landscape; situating itself in the plains of a new Black West tradition. These lush, inquisitive poems sing life, afterlife, and before-life. Brimming with lyricism and imagination, sensitivity and sly humor;\u003ci\u003e Golden Ax\u003c\/i\u003e is a perfectly innovative and relentlessly tender collection by a thrillingly dynamic poet.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Morgan Parker, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eMagical Negro\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eBorn and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah, Rio Cortez is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe ABCs of Black History \u003c\/i\u003e(Workman, 2020) and \u003ci\u003eI Have Learned to Define a Field As a Space Between Mountains, \u003c\/i\u003ewinner of the 2015 Toi Dericotte and Cornelius Eady Chapbook Prize. Her honors include a \u003ci\u003ePoets \u0026amp; Writers \u003c\/i\u003eAmy Award, as well as fellowships from Cave Canem, Canto Mundo, The Jerome Foundation, and Poet’s House. Rio holds an MFA in Creative Writing from New York University.Far Enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Byrdie Lee Howell Langon self-published Utah and the Early Black Settlers, a short book about her life and the Black community in Salt Lake City, Utah, and was honored with these words by her Bethel AME pastor, Jerry Ford, in 1969:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We say we love you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e not only for what you are\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but for what you are\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when we are with you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e we love you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e for putting your hand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e into our heaped-up hearts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and passing over\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all the frivolous and weak things\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that you cannot help\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but see there\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and drawing out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all the beautiful things\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that many\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e have not looked far enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to find\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Covered Wagon as Spaceship\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Standing unseen in the little bluestem,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e curious and not quite used to living,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I consider whether it's aliens\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that brought Black folks to the canyons, valley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Standing in the great evaporation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of a lake, holy dandelion for\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e eyes, full and white and searching the landscape\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e for understanding: how do you come\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to be where there are no others, except\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e science fiction? I am a child feeling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e extraterrestrial; whose history, untold,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is not enough. Anyway, it begins with abduction\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e UFO, for Instance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When the hole between blue spruce widens\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and twists into a cosmos              when the wild\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e lilac and campfire atomize           and night hangs their smokes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e across its belly   when in the clearing you are certain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e you are not lonelier         but there is a lifting in you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e where other knowing rises too   and divides you from the bone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in your feet to the fat     round your heart and leaves you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e surrounded by your own              breath you emerge from\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and watch vanish and think          the night ate it ate your knowing and how\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e could anyone know any more     you might as well look out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e into the clouds of long pine that hang     brambled and\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e orange in branches          you listen for howling but none comes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e North Node\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e According to her, I appeared to my mother in an in utero vision and told her my name. Before I chose my mother, all day long I ran my fingertips along the slick backs of cutthroat trout and gathered water from Millcreek into a sapphire pail. I waited for her. In the distance, there was a blue bull surrounded by lilies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e She loves me, so she bore me underwater. IÕm here to learn a lesson. I spent my other lives in the Nevada desert, where I only did what felt good. What could that mean? I reconcile the pleasure in lying naked on the hot sand of the Mojave, watching the braided muscles in a horseÕs hind legs with the ocean nowhere, a frying chest on the hood of an idle car. So comes a lesson, IÕm here to cut the scorpion from my throat. Even though it has dragged me through sweet darkness and time. Even now, in the stillness of home, in love and full of wine, it wraps its eight legs around me. Even through the lilies, it sets its many eyes on me and, suddenly, longing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like a Suggestion\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The antelope start dying,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of all places, on Antelope\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Island. Our two greyhounds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e startle in their sleep and walk\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e together toward the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've heard wolves are hunting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e bison, even though it's spring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and there are easier things to kill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cowbirds abandon wooden\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e fences. They say Atlantic salmon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e haven't returned to their cribs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of fresh water. The cat stands still\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e before an open door to the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I move to put my hand behind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e her ear and she bolts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I Have Learned to Define a Field as a Space between Mountains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If I remember a field where I stroked the velvety hound's-tongue and cracked its purple mouth from stem and it is not a memory, then what were the limits of the field?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Sometimes we are driving south toward Zion in a crowded truck with my mother and we pass the same red wildflowers until someone says, ÒIndian paintbrush, Rio, havenÕt you seen them before?Ó And, have I?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Other times I pose in front of giant flor de maga, its soft petal saucers larger than my head. My father fixes one behind my ear and says something in Eyeri but for what photograph? I am a conjoined hibiscus-headed twin, except IÕm local.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I braid the long hair of the willow and like a young warrior I swing across the canal bed by the braid. By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the willow trees, we hung our harps. How could we sing the LordÕs song in a foreign land? I read this once in Sunday school, tripping on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e In any field I am certain I can be seen by someone. How couldnÕt I? When IÕm blood-divided one hundred ways, when I pray to the God called DO NOT BOARD THE SHIP, when IÕm protected by so many masters of the vine. They must be in here somewhere? They must see me this far into the desert, it canÕt be that I am alone here. I search behind the cattails, I scramble the wood. Has it gotten darker?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e A child and all I can see are houses. Every house is a rambler with a plastic snake full of sand or a well that isnÕt really a well. Every house is on a street named after the Ute tribes. IÕm in Ute Country, in the field to fly a cheap kite, but it gets caught in pine sap. I walk home but not without pocketfuls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Idea of Ancestry\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After Etheridge Knight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am in a sweet place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e standing in Millcreek\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e on a road\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in its canyon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and this sweet place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e has also been the sweet place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of my people\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am staring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e into the water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my grandmother fished\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e with a rod and a line\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am standing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e near the head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of a timber trail\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e felled by grandfather's\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e grandfather\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am listening\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to the aspen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e its green coins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e singing in the wind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I know it sang\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e just like this\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e for them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am standing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e right at the center\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of its singing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the same sound\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e heard by black bears\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e or the calf of a moose\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e lying even sweeter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in the yarrow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e showing we can be dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and shining in wildflower\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I know this timber\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e was once a house\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my mother's grandmother's\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e mother's hammer in hand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e everything\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e throttling backward\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e toward me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e through time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a timber roof\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that has kept the frost\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e from coming in\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and stinging my babies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e we made that\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e for ourselves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I consider choosing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e there are times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when it is a joy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I like to think about my people\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e drinking fresh buttermilk\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e from the chosen farms\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of their other people\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all of us gazing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e back at the house\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e framed by our future knowing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e filling up on fresh tomatoes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and after\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e maybe lying like the silk calf\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in the deerwood and the aster\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and never-ending\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Driving at Night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For Laquan McDonald\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I think it's quails lining the road, but it's fallen birchwood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What look like white clouds in a grassy basin, sprinklers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I mistake the woman walking her retriever for a pair of fawns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Could-be animals. Unexplained weather. Maybe they see us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that way. Disappointed, the closer they get. Not quite ready to let it go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm Forced to Imagine There Are Two of Me Here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To fit in we practice not dancing I pull her hair against our head and burn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                the water out     she sucks in the lip of our belly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I call her Rio       say Rio  remind them of our one white    grandmother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                do what it takes to make them think        we are like them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Because it is a risk to want us      we close the bedroom door         she reaches under\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the blanket         It's just  me Rio  and        The Dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                does she part my legs     or The Dark's      I spit into our hand          and touch her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes she bites our lips       to make them smaller     we refuse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                to dance              we do what it takes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I let her drive Little Cottonwood Canyon It is night             we hit a deer      breath\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e from its nostrils clouds the windshield     It feels like there could be more\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                of us somewhere              she opens the car doors we show each other mercy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e take the same bite of a cracked rib           blood from her mouth I move to kiss the animal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I learn to shoot a bow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is no River Jordan that flows here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e between the railroad tracks and the back porch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's a canal. Not unlike my mother:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e low as it want to be and fullest when\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e it rains. Existing for however long\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e without a name, and singing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e under a timber bridge that we built. We built that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Isn't that our story? To be denied\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the beginning. I cross the bridge to shoot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a sapling bow my grandfather has carved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He helps me aim into cardboard flats stacked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e against the willow. I guess this is where\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am Orion. With two birth stories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In one story I come from a sea god\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e with the forest as my mother, and in\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the other, I have no mother at all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Partum\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just as close       to living as you are           to disappearing  knowing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my limits              you locate           the tender spots              without.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                To be batter and rind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e maybe I've hidden            my feral self       even though       I was certain       I was wild\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm now certain it was vanity\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e here I pace          cut open              drinking thistle and yolk\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e expecting nothing            determined to live\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e you        Little God,           Oldest Friend\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e who summons milk         and hair from the follicle              who moves my teeth      and makes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e me bleed             it is not a joy      but joyful            to have been      brought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e this close\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to the earth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e haven't we touched hands before?           in the bright red towns of my youth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in Loa or Escalante          where I thought                we were only passing through\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e was it you at the counter              serving me sarsaparilla   in a cool brown bottle,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e remembering me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Marion's 1982 Chevrolet Citation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If I board her      it means pulling open her heavy sails the steel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that gravity throws shut on my calves     good thing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am quick to leave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She must be virtuous because there is nothing hidden in her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e going     not the power in her closing doors nor the ignition\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and its triumphant refrain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e even idle, she disrupts    she rests in the cool shade\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of a basketball hoop       I stare from my parents' living room window\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e how the mulberry tree wreaks its havoc on the driveway\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all my friends call her The Killing Machine             how else\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e could she have lived this long and look so good   Marion says\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e it's like she's been asleep for me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am six days from my sixteenth birthday               I cover her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e hatchback in cosmic fish and press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my foot down where do I go       I wonder without them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the chrome of the dashboard mirrors the Millcreek sun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I see myself in fraction   my wristwatch as I pull the radio knob\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e eyebrow cocked as I adjust her mirrors\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A Class Distinction\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I start to say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Once,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I left the mountains,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the Wasatch and Oquirrh\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e talking aloud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I question the spelling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in my head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've never been sure\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's possible\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wasn't born from mountains at all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but a valley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What is lower\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e than a valley?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Once,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I left the strip malls,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I grew up in a long drive-thru line\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e sipping diet cola from a bent straw\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when I talk about mountains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am being romantic\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e about the valley\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I worry\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e you'll unmask me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've always been that way\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e lying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e just a little\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e on the Berber carpet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e squashing summer ants\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the TV telling me everything\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Salt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This is the place!                             Space is the place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                -Brigham Young -Sun Ra\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I slip the silksac of my body          and walk out      onto the flats\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the air a machine             sucking earth into fragments of white     absorbing heat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                finding me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I kneel at the shore         I reach into the lake        it is red  as a halt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                I reach into the wound of it         I drag out            its string of bones\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and now I am two            times the dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I crush skeletons              of artemia underfoot      I eat eggs            in stasis the dead             lake idles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the city surrounds           what weapons we are    I fold the net of my shadow        I hold it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                as evidence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emancipation Queen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Emancipation Queen\" was a historically Black beauty pageant in Utah.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                It's true\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that beauty\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e can be a tool\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e dually wielded\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                robin's egg\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e who would know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e come from a red-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e breasted bird\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                taffeta gown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e named for what\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the body made\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e its blue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                but not the maker\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e or the blue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e from which come\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the robin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                is that emancipation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to leave beauty behind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                a Black girl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                on a stage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                inside the egg\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of a robin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                a Black girl who is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a robin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e repeating the question\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Cain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Until 1978, Mormons maintained that in a spiritual \"preexistence,\" Blacks were neutral bystanders when other spirits chose sides during a fight between God and Lucifer. For that failure of courage, they were condemned to become the accursed descendants of Cain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I think of the earth that drank Abel's blood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e as I uproot foxtail from the garden.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Earth, not passive, but cursed by God, having\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e accepted death, and maybe, even, hoped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to grow from it. And Cain said to Abel,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Let us go to the field.\" I cut my own\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e thumb on a weed. I carry out a strict\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ritual of healing: cold hose water and then\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e most Holy: mouth. Tell me, what mark has God\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e given me? I am paraphrasing here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when I say God told Cain to rule over\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e his own longing or else restless wanderer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e shall he be on earth. First curse, then blessing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e God's always changing his mind about us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To Salt Lake, Letter Regarding Genealogy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After Charles Olson\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No shore no shore           backed against a paradox of water           where snow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e halts in valleys and we drink\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what melts,  I, risen from one break         in the endless\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e salt flat. I have had to build. O! how I have built for you!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e See how I have come, Salt Lake, with my thousand faces of the void!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My face night with no stars,        my face waves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in night sea.       I was born to work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mother, crow-headed goddess, called me dust and trusted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd become.        I changed for you! I became\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a quarry in Big Cottonwood. Later, I was born\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in uniform and carried a pickax in my throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stole the mountain's sandstone and it wasn't good enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e so I took its quartz instead and told you  \"pray by it.\" I,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Guard-thing of the White city.    How would you pray without me!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was born with a sore head from a perm               and swaddled in pages\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e from The Good Book.     I was a decoy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I pretended not to know my many names.           \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I did the work of believing with you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was born on swamp property    the woman who bore me was an animal.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302558355685,"sku":"NP9780143137139","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143137139.jpg?v=1767728290","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/golden-ax-isbn-9780143137139","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}