All posts by Lisa Hase-Jackson

#200 I Breathe the Cottonwood by New Mexico Centennial Poet, Levi Romero

I take the sage brush scent in
The folding hills
The heat of the asphalt
Twenty-seven minutes past noon

Past the historic marker
And the twisted metal road sign
The yellow apple dotted orchards
The alfalfa

I take it all in

For you my brothers
And sisters
Lying on rubber mattresses
In your jail pods
Finger-nailing the names
Of your loved ones
On styrofoam cups

The cactus flower puckers
Its sweet magnolia lips
For you today
Its prickly arms stretching
Up toward the clouds and the sky

Las mesas, los arroyitos,
Los barrancos, el Río Grande
La urraca, el cuervo
The cigarette butt pinched
And yellowed, the crunched
Beer cans on the roadside

I take it all in

Past the presa and the remanse
The swimming hole
Where you frolicked in the water
With your first crush
Her hair wet and pasted
Against the slant of her forehead
Her bare shoulders glistening
con l’agua bendita

Throughout the genizaro valle
Las milpas de maíz
Are lined in processions
Their powdery tassels
Swaying back and forth
Like pueblo feast day dancers
Atrás, adelante, atrás, adelante
Heya, heya, heya, ha

Past the ancient flat roofed houses
Like loaves of bread and their
Backyard hornos with their black
Toothless mouths yawning
The acequias’ lazy gurgle
The tortolita’s mid-afternoon murmur
The cleansing cota flower
Los chapulines, las chicharras
El garambullo, el capulín

For you, my brothers and sisters
The willow, the mud puddles
Reflecting brown the earth’s skin

I take it all in


#199 Memoria Desmemoriada/Forgetful Memory by Juan Estevan Arellano

La memoria se me está acabando
No sólo a mi, sino también a la tierra,
El caballo alazán tostado ya no sabe como trabajar
Ni conoce el arado, menos la jaida o la escardina

Hace un siglo que’l caballo era el mejor amigo del hombre
Le ayudaba a traer leña de la Cejita, siguiendo todo el arroyo de la plaza
Con el caballo se divertía el hombre corriendo en la pareja,
Al chueco y al gallo por las fiestas

Los hombres eran furnidos, fuertes y trabajaban de sol a sol
Y las mujeres no solo criaban las familias pero atendían las milpas y huertas de chile
Por el invierno vivían de los tasajos de calabazas y melones mexicanas
Las perchas se veían desde lejos colmadas de cecinas de vaca y borrega

Las acequias surtían a la comunidad de agua para regar los sembrados
De ahí también bebía agua la gente tanto como los animales,
Y las mujers usaban su agua para la lavar la ropa,
Sus bordos eran los caminos de la comunidad, un complejo de redes
Que hoy en día ya desaparecieron, la memoria ya se borró,
Igual que se borraron los surcos y las besanas

Los montes mejor se queman que dejar a la gente cosecharlos
Ya no sabemos cuales hierbas nos sanan y cuales nos enferman
Nos podemos morir de hambre rodeados de hierbas que se comen
Y morirnos de sed parados arriba del agua

Qué triste cuando una persona pierde su memoria,
Pero más triste es cuando la sociedad se le olvida de donde vino,
Y peor tristeza cuando la tierra pierde su habilidad de producir
Y las semillas ya no saben cuando reventar, ya se les olvidó
Por no ser nativas de esta tierra.

Que tristeza me da que en un siglo se fue la memoria
La tierra ya no produce, se volvió rala
Las acequias ya no corren, sucia está el agua en lugar de cristalina
Nuestra lengua ya no se escucha, nuestros hijos della se averguenzan.

Forgetful Memory

My memory is starting to fade
Not only mine, but also the earth’s
The sorrel roasted colored horse no longer knows how to work
He doesn’t recognize the plow, neither the sod-buster, much less the tiller

A century ago the horse was man’s best friend
He helped bring firewood from the brow of the mountain, following the Plaza arroyo
With the horse, man used him to recreate on the horse race site
Playing horse hockey and pulling the rooster

Men were robust, strong and worked from sun up to sun down
And women not only tended to their families, they also took care of the corn and chile plots
During the winter they lived off the dried squash and Mexican melons
The clothes line could be seen from a distance full of beef and lamb jerky

The acequias fed the communities with water to irrigate their fields
From there they also drank water both people and animals
Women used its water to wash their clothes
Their banks were the community roads, a complex of mazes
Today they have disappeared, the memory has faded
The same as the farrows and rows have disappeared

The mountains burn instead of allowing people to harvest them
We no longer know which plants heal us and which make us sick
We can die of hunger surrounded by edible plants
And die of thirst while standing on top of water

How sad when a person loses their memory
But it’s worse when society forgets its origins
And worse when the earth loses its ability to produce
And the seeds don’t know when to sprout, they already forgot
Since they are not native to this land

I feel sad that within a century our memory disappeared
The land no longer produces, it became very thin
The acequias no longer run, the water is dirty instead of crystalline
Our language is no longer spoken, our sons are ashamed

Juan Estevan Arellano – Journalist, writer, researcher; a graduate of New Mexico State University and a Fellow of the Washington Journalism Center. He was a Visiting Research Scholar at the University of New Mexico’s School of Architecture.

#198 Taos Summer of Love [excerpt] by Cathy Arellano

josie g.,
whose name you could find on any wall in the mission
in front of, behind, beneath, or on top of my sister’s,
lisa a.
and always with a big fat
told us of her daddy’s homeland:
24th and Mission is cool
san jo’s got it going on with Story and King
and there ain’t nothing wrong with East Los
but Española, New Mexico
that’s The Lowrider Capital of the WORLD!

The world?

The world!

Fer realz?

she maddogged us.
we raised our underage hands
with overage drinks
to those chicanos
who gave lowriding
a capital!

after my first and last party
with my sister and her homegirls
cops killed mission street cruising
no left turns 9 pm to 4 am
you got a broken tail light
expired registration
pull over

our dreams
if we had any
crashed into jail and drugs,
we got pregnant
we dropped out

Cathy Arellano writes about growing up brown, coming out queer, and living as true as she can which is kinda crooked. Her poetry and prose collection Salvation on 24th Street will be published in 2013. Her work has appeared in various journals and anthologies. Contact her at

#197 Solstice Communion by Bonnie Buckley Maldonado

Voices bless a winter flower
of red and gold,
of chile and corn;
worn hands pass the first tamales
from the dented roaster.

Communion wine is New Mexican,
red as sangre.
Masa is the bread of life.

Days of solstice preparation,
corn hand-ground,
red chile simmering,
and pork roasting.

Grandmothers’ memories
soften hojas and whip masa,
soft as sugar.

Masa on a fan of hoja,
red chile and meat in center.
Tamales carefully folded.
Organic origami.

They rest on chips of juniper,
an offering to Our Lady,
to the coming of the light.

Bonnie Buckley Maldonado has resided in Silver City, New Mexico since 1959.  Her work appears in the Willa Award Winning Anthology, Montana Women Writers: Geography of the Heart. She was named Willa Finalist in Poetry by Women Writing the West for It’s Only Raven Laughing, Fifty Years in the Southwest, 2010, her fourth book of poetry. She is Silver City’s poet laureate.

#196 Prayers on the Train [excerpt] by Carlos Contreras

Sunset and Feathers
Breathing in the wind.
Swallowed by the sky.


Something always is –

A challenge
A story
A lesson…

Teachers in more ways than one,
Beads on the proverbial Rosary

Thumbed at by abuelitas in the
Glow of a candle.

I always ask her,
“Grandma, did you pray for me today?”

“Of course, I always do.” She’d say… as she always does.

You see,
That’s the beauty of us,
New Mexicans.

Men and women
Cracked from a different rib,
A place where pain
translates to attention just the same and we

Through prayers and stories
We live on.

Carlos Contreras is a two-time national champion performance poet and local educator.  Co-founder of JustWrite, Contreras leads writing workshops at an adult correctional facility. He also hosts the National Hispanic Cultural Center’s Voces program. As part of Albuquerque’s Urban Verbs, Contreras creates alongside Colin Hazelbaker and Hakim Bellamy.

#195 Admirable by Amanda Saiz

There stood the image of my grandparents when they were blossoming in the black and white
portrait binded by a gold frame.
I was mesmerized by my grandmother’s admirable appearance.
The hand painted portrait was cherished by all.
Oh how I loved to stare at it while it hung on their wall.
I asked my grandmother if one day it could be mine.
This day never came because my grandparents are no longer here.
The portrait was taken as I had feared.
Now it’s just a memory of me as a young girl staring at the black and white
portrait binded by a gold frame.

Amanda Saiz, a student at CNM, is studying to become a radiology tech. she is a mother of three children. She was born and raised in Albuquerque New Mexico. She has always has a passion for poetry. This is her first publication. She will continue writing poetry in the future.

#194 A Time Traveler Sends a Postcard by Isreael Wasserstein

I found this card in ruins
of a tourist trap, above a volcano.
The air reeks of sulfur, but the view–
storm-gray rocks and lava trails
to violent sea–magnificent desolation.
What year this is, I cannot say,
those readouts have burned out long ago.
Once I charted the eons
by light pollution or the ice caps
but now I am content to leap
like a child trusting his father will catch him.
When will this find you? The day of your birth?
Double feature at the drive in? The night we watched
bombs shed the night’s skin? The fall
day when rain finally stopped and you said
this is no way to live? You were right,
or will be. The water’s edge tints red.
An algal bloom or some chemical
morass. Rocks melt in the silence.
I will investigate. Yours.

Israel Wasserstein received his MFA from the University of New Mexico and currently teaches at Washburn University. His first collection of poetry, This Ecstasy They Call Damnation, is forthcoming from Woodley Press.

#193 A Day at White Sands by Roy Beckemeyer

As the brash sun
lifts the edge of night,
dunes stretch and yawn,
their contours blushing
as they awaken…

the morning sun climbs
overhead like
a rocket, its hot exhaust glazing
the sky into porcelain
as white as these sands…

the dunes become
crouching chameleons,
hiding their round fullness
in the noon sun…

a single scarab
scratches her way
across a smooth, sloping
dune, embossing
intricate calligraphy
into the sifted sand:
a message to be read
by the slanting sun
of evening…

dune islands rise,
their shores lapped
by moon-shadow seas.

Roy Beckemeyer, of Wichita, Kansas, has traveled over much of New Mexico.  A retired engineer, he launched rockets at White Sands Missile Range in the 1980’s.  He has recently had poems published in Begin Again: 150 Kansas Poems, Coal City Review, and the Kansas Renga: To the Stars Through Difficulty.

#192 The Memory Jar by Benjamin Garcia

Sister, you will ask yourself, twelve years from now, the rest
of your life, why, as you slept, your little brother poured
a whole jar of June beetles into the tangled nest of your hair.

Remember the time you sat me pantless on an anthill,
or when you locked me overnight in the chicken coop,
how you tricked me into picking prickly pear barehanded.
Remember it, remember.

The more you pull, the tighter the grip.
Each beetle cleaving six fishhook legs.
Each blessed, shit-eating scarab
hissing and spitting at you like the harlot
you are in a book I’ve not yet read but will.

It won’t be for three days
the last bug leg falls out.
I have ruined your birthday forever.

And you ungrateful shrew, you don’t even bother
to think of the trouble your brother went through for you.
Dark hours in the yard the night before, waiting
by the one porch light, offering my body freely
to the mosquitoes as I hand-selected the choice beetles—
only those whole and larger than a quarter. I treated

each and every scarab with utmost care,
and just before I would place them in the jar,
brought each hissing bug an inch from my lips
and whispered:
she hates you, she hates you.
I must have done that thirty times,
not that I counted, before sealing the jar.

First published in Poet Lore.

Benjamin Garcia, originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico,  recently completed his MFA at Cornell University, where he currently  teaches as a Freund Fellow.  He has received scholarships from the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, CantoMundo, and the Taos Summer Writer’s  Conference.  His work has appeared in Poet Lore and

#191 the sacrifice is always by Marc Thompson

here in the art room
of Hennepin United Methodist Church
Minneapolis, Minnesota
where silent men and women travel
to the center of the labyrinth
in their stockinged feet
as women and men have done
for eight hundred years

(here where Jesus lies
in his mother’s arms
under a brightly painted halo)

the sacrifice is not
in the journey
in its twists and turns

the sacrifice
is always

here in Santa Fe
the New Mexico village
where toughened peasants carry
heavy crosses and heavy beliefs
side by side     side by side
on crutches and wheelchairs
in cracked leather boots
twenty seven miles to the desert
shrine of Chimayo
just as they have for two hundred years

(here where Jesus bleeds
bright red paint
from fly-infested wounds)

the sacrifice is not
in the journey
in its twists and turns
and desert heat
the sacrifice
is always

Marc Thompson currently resides in Minneapolis, MN where he is a stay-at-home dad.  He thinks it’s the best job in the world.  Marc received his MFA from Hamline University, and his poems have appeared in journals and anthologies in the US, England, Australia, Canada, Japan, and cyberspace.

#190 The Related by Page Lambert

Alone, far from home, my son said he cooked
the ribs, all of them, for two days until
they were white as stone, these pronghorn
bones, stripped of fiber and family, slivered
meat like flakes of obsidian, marrow
rich with memory.

While we talk I remember the Pueblo flute player
in Santa Fe pulling the rooted story of forest
from the wooden reed, how his people’s song
floated like windblown leaves, like the swift
running dreams of a hunter far
from home.

My son said the doe’s meat was
tender, that he used nearly two bottles
of barbecue sauce but only one bullet, he said
that the meat from her ribs alone would feed him
for a dozen days.

I wonder if he knows how his stories feed me,
how my milken memories drip like
resin down rough tree bark, onto the
cluttered forest floor, among the bent
needles and bristle-coned caches where
squirrels skitter and daylight fades.

 grew up in the Rocky Mountains and calls Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico home. Recipient of AROHO’s 2013 “Wise Woman Fellowship Award” and Colorado Authors League “Best Blog of the Year Award” for All Things Literary. All Things Natural,  her essays, poetry and books are widely published. She coaches writers, leads outdoor adventures, writing seminars, and enjoys keynoting.


#189 An Empty Glass by Janet Eigner

Blood-orange house finch, all the bright autumn morning
hasn’t darted and flown from under the feeders
like the junkos, the ladder backs and white crowns.
He rests, nibbles a bit of the fallen sunflower, the thistle seed.
Hunches in swift instinct when the jay’s shadow passes overhead
when a canyon towhee bullies, running at him, pecking at power.
Resting, maybe for transmigration, its last earthly hours.
Rocks on its cradling wings, barely at balance
no longer attempting flight.

A defeated soldier, any war, returns not as himself
lurches from sleep, nightmares swooping in and out
like vultures, sniffing and tugging at the ravaged
shattered soul that sags under the death of others — comrades
those he’s been taught to kill in order to protect.
All instinct for life or thought sucked away by this top-brass irony
human compassion blown away with these cynical lessons.
He clenches to stay afloat like a half-starved polar bear
on his calved and melting ice-flow.

#188 Leaving Santa Fe by Carol Aronoff

The smell of pinon, pungent
as chile, follows me down
Old Santa Fe Trail.
Sand blows across the road,
settling in my hair like stardust.
Sage and chamisa wave
at coyote fences, colored
by hollyhocks, lavender.
Behind them, cottonwoods
and the soft curved shoulder
of adobe wall.

From a coven of churches ring bells
that stop my thoughts, tender
solace to sinners–so many places
to pray. Tewas and Hopi offer
turquoise and dreams on altar
cloths beneath sacred trees.
I enter their temples. Crow Mother
rests on a branch nearby, gifts me
with corn for my faraway garden.

Leaving behind shops of art
and trinkets, my feet slow as sun
beats a past-noon descent.
Sky is high desert blue.
The air, wrung dry, shimmers
with heat, ancestral stories.
I feel the old ones stir my heart,
their whispers, my pulse.

Carol Aronoff’s poetry appears in numerous journals and anthologies, including Comstock Review, Poetica, Mindprints, Sendero, and  Iodine. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. The Nature of Music was published in 2005, Cornsilk in 2006, Her Soup Made the Moon Weep in 2007. Blessings From an Unseen World is forthcoming.

#187 Near El Rito by Phyllis Wax

Our guide remembers when he was a boy
watching his father bulldoze dirt

to bury the remains
of his ancestors’ pueblo

to preserve what the state
couldn’t afford to restore.

We scavenge shards of pottery
which keep working their way to the surface.

A Pushcart nominated poet, Phyllis Wax writes on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan in Milwaukee, WI.  Her work has appeared in many publications, including Out of Line, Your Daily Poem, Verse Wisconsin, Seeding the Snow, Ars Medica and Naugatuck River Review.  She co-edited the 2002 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar.

#186 ACOMA TALE by Faye Snider

Shadows faded as a desert breeze,
seven thousand feet above the sea,
hover over this sky isle village
of thirty-six families,
three murky cisterns, two trees,
a cluster of quarter-moon outhouses,
flat adobe roofs—some sporting
wood stove chimneys.

Artisans at doorways stand at tables
filled with pots,
most machine-made-white,
hand decorated. I search for the rare,
rose hued & hand crafted—colors
birthed from ground herbs & flowers,
pulverized charcoal.

I’m drawn to the husky timbre
of a woman’s voice. Her eyes
flash as she holds up a six-inch clay pot.
She points to its thunder bolt “for energy and life,”
a float of clouds she names “a boundary,”
the round-backed jet bear “for food and skins,”
a tiny hole “to store seeds.”
She cushions the pot in the palm of my hand.
It rattles the sound of rain.

“How much?” I ask.
The man by her side steps up,
collects the money, wraps the pot.
Left wanting, I turn back to the woman
who digs & hand-coils clay,
creates pigment to paint her tales.
“Thank you for your story,” I say.
She nods, the fire in her eyes flown
on silent wings.

Faye Snider turned to writing poetry during her career as a clinical social worker/family therapist. Post career, she received her MFA from Pine Manor’s Solstice Program in Creative Writing. A New Mexico enthusiast, her poetry and personal essays have appeared in the Ibbetson Street Press literary journal, Alimentum and Sugarmule.

#185 Anodyne by Gary Jackson

Bourbon in hand, you believe the world
will always be this strange
and wonderful. A dog barks by the pool
tables, you throw one thigh across my lap
and let your glass pull your hand against mine.
The dark honey crashes against the rim.
A waitress comes and asks if we’d like more.
We nod and raise our down
-ed glasses, before drowning. Want burns
our throats. The only thing to cool this is
to spit in my mouth before we smolder back
to clay. Outside, music dies as it stumbles
out of the club. Let us celebrate
how distant our bodies are from home,
how anything can be exotic: the street view
window, the cracked glass tabletops, our
own skin. Let tonight end somewhere in
foreign territory. Help me believe the lie:
that the world is too vast to ever be familiar.

Born and raised in Topeka, Kansas, Gary Jackson is the author of the poetry collection Missing You, Metropolis, which received the 2009 Cave Canem Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared in Callaloo, Tin House, Phoebe and elsewhere. He teaches at Central New Mexico Community College in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

#184 Approaching Another New Year by Michelle Holland

November airs the trees out of their leaves,
they end up crispy brown barely hanging on,
or as a brown carpet blown here and there
by the suddenly rude autumn wind.
Little stories end in this dire season,
or begin, just like any other time of year.
Take the small charred perfect aspen leaf
that drifted into our driveway
from forty miles away, down the mountain
on the winds of the Los Conchas fire.
Later, the dog we adopted, beautiful, wild
young Ridgeback, survived the fire as well,
escaping on charred paws to end up here,
to tame himself at our safe house.

Take each life that ended this season,
friends and family, and the intricacies
that twine together in eulogy and memory:
summer camps with cousins, Moonie wings
of take offs and touch downs. Those who survive
embrace the photos, and the smallest sequence
of words that bring everything back.
Take the threats to the broccoli, Brussels sprouts,
corn, and in the early spring, the strawberries,
all diminished by squirrels, or aphids and grasshoppers.
We harvested anyway. In December we are eating tomatoes
ripened in three weeks of yesterday’s news.
Now, on the easel a new painting of the heirloom
varieties that appeared from green to ripe like magic.

“Moonie” is a type of small airplane, like a Cessna.

Michelle Holland lives and writes in Chimayo, New Mexico.  Her books include the New Mexico Book Award winning collection, The Sound a Raven Makes, Tres Chicas Press 2007; and Chaos Theory, Sin Fronteras Press, 2009.

#183 ROCKFALL by Lori Romero

My friend, Annie, is a rock hound. Not the my-dad-bought-me-a rock-kit-when-I-was-eight kind of person, but a genuine hard piece of the earth fanatic. Her den looks like a mining expedition took over that part of the house. Annie’s unwavering enthusiasm finally persuaded me to abandon my usual Saturday slothful ways and join her on a hike through the juniper-piñon canyon of Rio de las Trampas. After a fifteen minute clamber, passing what I hoped was not bear or mountain lion droppings, we came upon an unexpected sight. A Noel Langley landscape. We found ourselves at the bottom of a boulder-lined bowl created by retreating glaciers. Thousands of rocks were stock-still, frozen in mid-tumble down the hill. The sight made me feel small and vulnerable.  I was hesitant to move lest I remind gravity of its job. Annie picked up a piece of stone and rubbed it in her hand.  It sparkled like an Oz slipper. The shadow of something large flew overhead as Annie and I collected samples of milky quartz, granite, gneiss, shale and pyrite. We picnicked near the curious formations, and let the sweet air and sun work its magic on our tired brains. Yellow yarrow lined the way to a spiraling waterfall roaring down the ravine. When it was time to head back home, I didn’t want to go.  On the steps of my apartment, I pulled out the stone Annie had pressed into my hand as a keepsake of our adventure. It was broken off from what it once was and heavy with the weight of wear, much like Dorothy on her return to Kansas.

Lori Romero is winner of the Spire Press Poetry Chapbook Competition for The Emptiness That Makes Other Things Possible.  Her first chapbook, Wall to Wall, is published by Finishing Line Press. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize.

#182 Party on Indian School and University by Matthew Jake Skeets

and all he thinks about are his brown, cracked
feet.  The dead skin and yellow nails slipped
into a pair of black no-shows, and the music pumps.
The kids’ pocket wrappers and crushed beer cans
almost began bouncing on the tattered carpet. And the lights
make him want to scream, the native boy sitting
on the coffee table thinking about parties on the rez.

How they smell so much the same, like beer breath
and nachos. They even say the same things, call him
pussy if he doesn’t want to drink. And he starts to wonder
boarding-school mothers, in their tight Levi jeans
and cowboy boots, line dancing in dirt, with a mix
of a drunken Macarena. And how they forget Navajos
weren’t supposed to drink, and in the morning
they lay on cold, morning-blue grounds, shirts torn,
somewhere in ditches.

The music fades into a slow dance as three couples
congeal on the tattered carpet.  Hormonal chants
about the missionary position, enticing the boys and girls
with powwows in their pants, dissolves the skin colors
of these kids, and no one is white anymore.
They are a greasy tint of cheap beer and 7-11 liquor.
Everyone zips in and out of bedrooms,
and someone dims the lights.

A translucent-skinned girl staggers towards
the sitting native boy, and she is wide-eyed,
like after Ghost Dance, ready for her stoic native,
feathered and buckskinned. The boy shifts his body
in surrender
and he feels her heavy tit in his palm and her hand
edging near his crotch.  And she starts sucking
on his bottom chapped lip, her body sweaty
with acceptance.

Matthew Jake Skeets is a Navajo, of the Black-Streak-Wood People, born for Water’s Edge. He is a fourth year student at the University of New Mexico and is from Vanderwagen, New Mexico. Writing and storytelling are in his blood.

#181 MIGRATION by Mina Yamashita

Five cranes crossed overhead, a good omen—a promise,
if you believe the legends of my ancestors.

They glide toward the Bosque del Apache,
their home and shelter in this desert place.
They go to sleep ere daylight slips beneath the cedar breaks.

Our intersect is but a lover’s tryst—a coming home to roost.

My forebears asked for the good fortune brought by cranes,
made their image into paper blessings—
prayers of offering to ancient shrines.

I live in the shadow of Los Alamos,
cradle of a people’s darkest nightmare,
origin of all life, torn asunder.

While blackened gardens lay in ashy silence,
I learned to pledge allegiance, and ignore
the havoc wrought by others on a distant shore.

A score of years before I learned my parents
had been caged like birds.
They didn’t tell that story, kept it close.

And now, I am a captive of New Mexico,
in love with its strange history and wild land,
in love with its red mountains, and its nesting birds.

Cranes will leave their nest if frightened in their vigil,
will not sanctify that ground again.
But humankind always looks back, never quite forgets.

We call on many places claiming birthright.
I make my homestead here with these great birds for neighbors,
a home for generations, a gift—some may call fortune.

I call it fortitude.

Award-winning graphic designer for 50+ years, Mina first studied printmaking and typography at Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, NY. In 2009, after 9 years as a senior book designer at UNM Press, wrote “Mina’s Dish” for Albuquerque’s Alibi for 18 months. She is now engaged in freelance writing, design, and illustration.