by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The way you buried
your nose in my hand
made me unable to forget you
that cold morning
at daybreak.
Skin and bones you were.
Perhaps a boot to your neck,
or starvation,
sent you fleeing to my gate,
asking for help.
So I let you in.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
He came to do plumbing work,
bringing an elderly man
with him.
If you have a job
in Indian country,
then you must support
an elderly person
or a relative.
Last year
the young carpenter
who came to do work
brought three elderly workers,
paid them out of his wages.
They spoke Dinè
to each other,
quietly,
throughout the afternoon,
finished their work
and then left
for the long, winding road
toward home.
The plumber dropped
the old man at his home—
because this is
the “Indian way.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We saw
jays
emaciated
from the drought,
crying in the desert.
I remember…
As little girls
we leaned close
to listen
to the tallest
of us
as she said,
“I know how the world will end…
Man will destroy himself.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Ethel grew up on a dairy farm not far from Wausau, Wisconsin. The farm, its woods, and the stream that ran through the farm often finds its way into her poetry, but perhaps the greatest skill she took away from her childhood was her ability to grow anything anywhere. The Pueblo and Navajo who live in the country around Continental Divide have traditionally grown the three sisters: Corn, squash, and beans. We had not lived in New Mexico for long before Ethel picked up the magic of this combination of plants. This year, however, her corn has been the most spectacular of any year since we moved here. She made compost all winter and spring and has fed the small corn patch in our yard strategically since early spring. She has watered most mornings during this terrible year of drought, and the result is the tallest sweet corn to be found anywhere close to here. The beans, wrapped around the corn stalks, is just as profuse, resulting in a good year for Ethel’s crops.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
From the air
I recognize
the greenness of the land,
but especially
the straight, square lines
of sections and highways—
unlike the winding, dusty
roads back home.
I bring a rose
for you, Mama,
nestled in among
names like Berg, Nyquist
And Olson.
Even here
they pick on a person
that does not fit in—
like chickens do
to the least of their own.
These are the descendents
of people who threw
boiling water
from upstairs windows
on the Anishinabe people
as they were marched through
the little towns of Minnesota.
I touch the turquoise
around my neck
and feel its warmth.
In that vast desert
back home,
there is a place called acceptance,
a place my people
would call
a wasteland.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
While Sonja, our daughter, and William, our grandson, visited in New Mexico, we went up a canyon not far from our house in Continental Divide. Both Sonja and Ethel took photos as we drove up the canyon, stopping at different times on the way. The light was perfect, resulting in some spectacular work by both photographers. Sonja and William, after this photo was taken, hiked to the red cliffs that rose above them in the sunlight.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The stars laugh and laugh,
laughing in an ocean of laughter,
moving-water laughter,
until the sky can hold no more
and joins in laughing
with black face and shining teeth.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Here
we breathe in sky
and out sky,
like the trees
that grow out of rocks,
breathing in sky and living.
He is our father,
the one who made us,
the one who takes
the sky sounds
of hummingbird wings
and gives them to us,
to be our hearts.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
