Naomi Ortiz

Like safety can be quantified in drawing, therefore knowing, weeds which grow in my yard, at the side of the road, in the arroyo

In this dry gritty dirt where I sit, life springs up unadorned where animal or wind dropped seed,

in the middle of everything

Pencil lines arch, friction of hand slides over page, shakes loose what scares me

As shape becomes form, confidence is inspired by stems flung open wide to sun

Leaves bend in flow of breeze, shake loose, give themselves some room

A practice to learn the secrets behind a name

Fortitude unearthed by greeting what lives at my feet

In the desert, I observe

plants show how to survive

In the desert, I let my guard down

plants sit patient

In the desert, I entrust the tender bits

Plants are with me as I lay them down

I always ask permission: to leave ragged and sharp remnants of a romantic relationship beside a driveway in the generous pads of a nopal cactus, to “bury” racist, ableist people in their own small underground graves

in my front yard,

on a rocky slope,

under an old oak tree,

to leave unanswered questions and pain borne from an imperfect parental relationship with dancing grasses next to Sandhill Cranes who sing to each other as they glide over the ephemeral water plain

I always acknowledge, always thank

Offer:

kisses,

blood,

water,

hair,

song,

mutual regeneration