O’Keeffe was claiming Abiquiu,
up the hill A bomb was brewing,
still, The Two homesteaded outside of Santa Fe,
built adobe houses to be alone together.
Maimie Meadors would not give in to TB.
Nina Otero-Warren refused to ride side saddle.
Taught by the still Tewa how to grow,
beans and corn and pray for rain.
The Patient outliving a verdict by twenty-five years,
and the Widow, by Catholic loophole, squatters
in a wild, lonely canyon broken by storms
that still gather quickly along the Jemez.
Mostly dry arroyos fingered through the plots,
below the ridge where the women hid their still,
still there with remnants of bullet-holed cans
shot in mid-air under the haze of cooling clouds.
Five months, at least, each year secluded
to write and grow with the changing climate.
Reforming the State of things for women,
discussing catch and release, as it relates to men.
Crossing the meadow between two hills,
pockets full of osha to still the snakes,
hiding in eye-lashed, blue grama, to houses
where jealous geraniums grew in coffee cans.
Along the Rio Grande, between muted mountains,
carving out a life with smooth resolve,
cutting through the clutter and the cordons,
like the Cooper’s hawk that lives there, still.
Laurie Hilton was born in West Texas. She has lived in Santa Fe, NM for the past 25 years and began writing poetry in 2007. Her poems have been published in Adobe Walls and the Rag. She is co-author of Braided Voices, a collection of poetry accepted by New Mexico Women Authors Book Festival in 2011.