270 | another simple favor


( oh, of course it's you. you are so obsessed with me! )

Today I planted the cookie jar terrarium.  This fills "the green stuff" square in my 5-1-25 card for the Colors Fest bingo.  See Part 1: Setup.

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Today's project was filling a set of trough pots and securing them to the benches of the new picnic table. (This is from Tuesday, but it's after midnight so the date reads Wednesday. See some "before" pictures.) There are 6 troughs total, although one already had wild strawberries in it from earlier. Each bench holds 3 troughs. I got these and a bunch of other pots when Big Lots went out of business.

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Llegó con tres heridas (He arrived with three wounds)
Miguel Hernández

(This poem was also put to music)

(original)

Llegó con tres heridas:
la del amor,
la de la muerte,
la de la vida.

Con tres heridas viene:
la de la vida,
la del amor,
la de la muerte.

Con tres heridas yo:
la de la vida,
la de la muerte,
la del amor.

(English)

He arrived with three wounds:
that of love,
that of death,
that of life.

With three wounds he comes:
that of life,
that of love,
that of death.

I with three wounds:
that of life,
that of death,
that of love

The Colorado River is the most endangered river in the United States—
also, it is a part of my body.

I carry a river. It is who I am: 'Aha Makav. This is not metaphor.

When a Mojave says, Inyech 'Aha Makavch ithuum, we are saying our name.
We are telling a story of our existence. The river runs through the middle
of my body.

So far, I have said the word river in every stanza. I don't want to waste water.
I must preserve the river in my body.

In future stanzas, I will try to be more conservative.

↠

The Spanish called us, Mojave. Colorado, the name they gave our river be-
cause it was silt-red-thick.

Natives have been called red forever. I have never met a red Native, not
even on my reservation, not even at the National Museum of the American
Indian, not even at the largest powwow in Parker, Arizona.

I live in the desert along a dammed blue river. The only red people I've seen
are white tourists sunburned after staying out on the water too long.

↞
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From Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz - Page 46 to 52