When There Aren’t Any Wars Left, I Will Drown You in Rugby
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀For Mark Kendall Bingham
and “Shot in the dark” will play from my dad’s stereo. The sun
and stars will paint his Silverado maroon and gold. I will dance
until the photos chisel blood, cantinas building between my toes—
I can taste you. I taste born-glass, my fingers through your hair, my
lips sealed—giant squids bounce between silent shields. That’s
where I will quake in your sleepy voice at 4AM ask to meet for
a sixth jewel tone gray. I will drive down that dirt road for you
dress in the warmest parks and drive thrus—teetering on lacing
or pricking you. Vidal Sassoon, platform boots, psychedelic
mushrooms, Astro tattoos—this is drugstore maul, ruck and scrum.
My shot in the dark playing form the stereo, gutting the stars in
my dad’s Silverado, my maroon in your gold. Will you be a thing with feathers
covered in cazadores, a cantina built into my cheeks, leave craters
behind and undress me, parks and drive thrus, teeter you, teeter me
on lacing or pricking jewels? “Shot in the dark” will play from my
dad’s old stereo when there aren’t any wars left. I will wade
one in you—until then let us seek God, let us make demons. Let us
sing silk songs. Let me drown you in rugby.
can you hear me tonight in a translated radio broadcast?
somewhere in the husks I will sing again
fingers cradle cans of -pares⠀⠀⠀⠀a serpent
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀in baked Alma Ata⠀⠀⠀⠀tally red yellow green
yellow pears red again red was the color of it
wasn’t it⠀in this field of loss⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀of translation
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I press the skull breads of your penance⠀your
silence⠀in freezer sections and convenience stores
your lapidary spikes me dry prick my
tongue⠀I have forgotten⠀hazhóʼógo yáníłtiʼ
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀As- replaces the wheat filled plains dust
covered wounds position harm⠀Dainty cross
Daily⠀⠀over a stove my mother tends to these
our millennium’s greatest survival kit
here, in the Badlands where psychosis is
a breakeven⠀a wading⠀a warrior panhandling
along the 66⠀outside the gas stations
where parsnip as dandelions on wheels
sheer the sheep of their mounds⠀the Dwelling
that’s what you called it, didn’t you⠀the Dwelling
when the music escapes and enters the body
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it slits the tongue like a fruit fly⠀⠀like Judas
now here⠀the husks burns⠀tax and spread
across Nation⠀from the bellies of Nation
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀churn an aorta around the mesas
a stampede of flowers grunt and rise
now you’re so far away⠀somewhere in the
basin towards the cáscaras⠀⠀drink Maro
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀drink⠀eat⠀⠀you are here with the cascades
conservation⠀I may drink once drink twice
hail a taxi three times before I see you again
until then I join sensation I join this harmony
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀build my garden⠀scorch it⠀ready it for rebirth
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀blood in the Badlands
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀bleed for a new –pare
Chris Hoshnic is a Navajo poet, playwright, and filmmaker, who has been honored with the 2023 Hayden’s Ferry Review Indigenous Poets Prize and as a finalist for the Poetry Northwest James Welch Prize. His fellowships include the Native American Media Alliance’s Writers Seminar, UC Berkeley Arts Research Center, and the Diné Artisan and Authors Capacity Building Institute, with support from Indigenous Nations Poets, Playwrights Realm, Tin House, and others.