Full Poem (Post-Colonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz):
I’ve been taught bloodstones can cure a snakebite, can stop the bleeding—most people forgot this when the war ended. The war ended depending on which war you mean: those we started, before those, millennia ago and onward, those which started me, which I lost and won— these ever-blooming wounds. I was built by wage. So I wage Love and worse— always another campaign to march across a desert night for the cannon flash of your pale skin settling in a silver lagoon of smoke at your breast. I dismount my dark horse, bend to you there, deliver you the hard pull of all my thirsts— I learned Drink in a country of drought. We pleasure to hurt, leave marks the size of stones—each a cabochon polished by our mouths. I, your lapidary, your lapidary wheel turning—green mottled red— the jaspers of our desires. There are wild flowers in my desert which take up to twenty years to bloom. The seeds sleep like geodes beneath hot feldspar sand until a flash flood bolts the arroyo, lifting them in its copper current, opens them with memory— they remember what their god whispered into their ribs: Wake up and ache for your life. Where your hands have been are diamonds on my shoulders, down my back, thighs— I am your culebra. I am in the dirt for you. Your hips are quartz-light and dangerous, two rose-horned rams ascending a soft desert wash before the November sky unyokes a hundred-year flood— the desert returned suddenly to its ancient sea. Arise the wild heliotrope, scorpion weed, blue phacelia which hold purple the way a throat can hold the shape of any great hand— Great hands is what she called mine. The rain will eventually come, or not. Until then, we touch our bodies like wounds— the belled bruises fingers ring against the skin are another way to bloom. The war never ended and somehow begins again.
