APRIL POETS

The Rug Weaver – Mojave 1904

By

Ilona Martonfi

Piñon nuts, prickly pear cactus,

she gathers juniper berries,

the dance of the squaw,

a black crow keens

and walks in the sun

catches fire—

without its carapace

the cawing is louder:

Shideezhi,

daughter of Chooli—

today is your Kinaalda,

rite of passage,

thick handspun yarns

carding and spinning,

everyday letting out the sheep.

Things she said about being a woman:

my great-grandmother remembers

the Long Walk home

land of the four sacred mountains

desert mesa by the wash

heard the cries of a child—

long, fringed buckskin dress

adorned with silver concha belt,

turquoise bead necklace,

upright loom.

Navajo weaver carding

and spinning,

we live here as a clan

mud roof cedar hogan

door facing the east.

Our Beautiful Land

By

Ilona Martonfi

The road to Nunavut

Iglulik summer camp

sealskin tent. My father Amaruq

in a kayak:

Trackless

with thin ice

hunter-gatherers

ancient names —

a girl Lutaaq Meekitjuk,

Inuit woman with her daughter,

Arcticin fuchsia midnight sun,

red-purple

rhododendron.

Sewing fur parka, beaver mittens.

We are flown to residential school:

A place

to learn

assimilate —

Ward of the State.

My Bible name is Annie.

Native Inuktitut, forbidden.