Sara Marie Ortiz

Summer 2023 | Poetry

Two Poems

Chimera

                                                                                                               Teaches us all things.

I have the carcass of

A heron                                                                                                 About how things are always changing.

Hanging in my office.                                                                         No matter what we do.

I call him Blue.                                                                                                             

                                                                                                               If you don't know

I read an "article" in the Times                                                          Even a little bit about story

About how you know if you're a true Seattleite.

                                                                                                               And most particularly

Never read the comments.                                                               The story of

If you get to see the moon                                                                The Changer.

And truly see it

Full or not.                                                                                             You should.

 

In winter.

 

You are truly lucky.

 

The moon teaches all things.

 

About houses.

 

And their absence.

 

The Duwamish river

Looking out 

Lucky Liquor on Marginal with

The semis

Passing by so loud.

 

A heron.

And the salmon jumping up

Then back down

And across.

 

The moon.

The moon, 

 

She.

   

Hau duwa k’aash’ uwimi?*

 

“What is light?”

A letting

A gathering

A tightening and

forgetting

Gathered, tightened and tightening light there in them and the bodies of them

The holy people blood born, hewn, and thread bear – we sing in the ghost

voices now and the atoms

in us are seeded light

Ceding it

Breathing and breathless

Pulsate the throttled prayer sentence

Not liturgy but ossuary....

+++++++

I imagine, you, America, chemical blood and mud and drug filled lab-made protein

I imagine, you, America – the last and the letting, the prayer, the poem and the benediction song.

 

 

 

 

 

*Whose shoes are these?

Sara Marie Ortiz is a Seattle-based writer of creative nonfiction, poetry, and mixed-genre work. She is an enrolled citizen of the Pueblo of Acoma, a graduate of the Institute of American Indian Arts (BFA in creative writing) and Antioch University Los Angeles (MFA in creative writing). She has also studied formally law, Native studies and education, theater, and film. She has published widely, has been featured in such publications as the Kenyon Review, the Florida Review, Fulcrum,  Ploughshares, and she has presented widely from her beloved birthplace in New Mexico, throughout the Pacific Northwest, and all the way to Johannesburg, South Africa. Sara Marie is also a passionate Native educator and advocate in the realm of Native arts, culture, literature, Tribal languages, education, and community. She currently serves as the Native Education Program Manager for Highline Public Schools in Burien, Washington. She loves watching and studying movies and listening to all kinds of music (especially chilled electronica, old timey bluegrass, neo-Americana, folk, and hip hop), and has a beautiful fluffy orange cat named Mr. Pickles.

Sara recommends Inside (2023) w/ the great Willem Dafoe, and Book on Project 562 by Matika Wilbur  https://www.npr.org/sections/pictureshow/2023/04/28/1172138168/native-american-tribes-photographs-matika-wilbur

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Elise Paschen - poetry