164th Virtual Poetry Circle
![](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0b7e59ba-2f85-4e8d-88c1-f1fde4557f18_220x195.jpeg)
Welcome to the 164th Virtual Poetry Circle!
Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.
Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.
Also, sign up for the 2012 Fearless Poetry Reading Challenge because its simple; you only need to read 1 book of poetry. Please visit the stops on the 2012 National Poetry Month Blog Tour.
Today’s poem is from Natalie Diaz's When My Brother Was an Aztec:
The Red Blues (page 11-13)
There is a dawn between my legs, a rising of mad rouge birds, overflowing and crazy-mean, bronze-tailed hawks, a phoenix preening sharp-hot wings, pretty pecking procession, feathers flashing like flames in a Semana Santa parade.
There are bulls between my legs, a torera stabbing her banderillas, snapping her cape, tippy-toes scraping my mottled thighs, the crowd's throats open, shining like new scars, cornadas glowing from beneath hands and white handkerchiefs bright as bandages.
There are car wrecks between my legs, a mess of maroon Volkswagens, a rusted bus abandoned in the Grand Canyon, a gas tanker in flames, an IHS van full of corned beef hash, an open can of commodity beets on this village's one main road, a stoplight pulsing like a bullet hole, a police car flickering like a new scab, an ambulance driven by Custer, another ambulance for Custer.
There is a war between my legs, 'ahway nyavay, a wager, a fight, a losing that cramps my fists, a battle on eroding banks of muddy creeks, the stench of metal, purple-gray clotting the air, in the grass the bodies dim, cracked pomegranates, stone fruit this orchard stains like a cemetery.
There is a martyr between my legs, my personal San Sebastian leaking reed arrows and sin, stubbornly sewing a sacred red ribbon dress, ahvay chuchqer, the carmine threads pull the Colorado River, 'Aha Haviily, clay, and creosotes from the skirt, each wound a week, a coral moon, a calendar, a begging for a master, or a slave, for a god in magic cochineal pants.
There are broken baskets between my legs, cracked vases, terra-cotta crumbs, crippled grandmothers with mahogany skins whose ruby shoes throb on shelves in closets, who teach me to vomit this fucshia madness, this scarlet smallpox blanket, this sugar-riddled amputated robe, these cursive curses scrawling down my calves, this rotting strawberry field, swollen sunset, hemoglobin joke with no punch line, this crimson garbage truck, this bloody nose, splintered cherry tree, manzano, this metis Mary's heart, guitarra acerezada, red race mestiza, this cattle train, this hand-me-down adobe drum, this slug in the mouth, this 'av'unye 'ahwaatm, via roja dolorosa, this dark hut, this mud house, this dirty bed, this period of exile.
What do you think?