come from a community of storytellers. I grew up with stories about our land and water, about the strange and reality-defying occurrences of my desert—discovering the night heaving in sleep on a moonstruck sand dune; hearing an owl call out to you to “come closer and look”; a 127-degree day; a rock that weeps when its creator dies. Before there was poetry, there was our Mojave language. When we say our name in Mojave, we say, “The river runs through my body.” When we say the Mojave word for “sex,” we refer to “what the hummingbird does to the flower.” Poetry is one of many lucky recognitions of that intimacy with language and the many bodies language carries. When I write or read poetry, I recognize it—as
The Practice of Poetry
Jan 04, 2022
4 minutes
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