When My Brother Was an Aztec by Natalie Diaz Read Free Book Online

followed him here where all the black birds in the world have fallen like a shotgun blast to the faded ground. The vines have hardened to worms baking in the desert heat. We are at the gate shaking the gate climbing the gate clanging our cups againstthe gate. This is no garden. This is my brother and I need a shovel to love him.

Soirée Fantastique

    Houdini arrived first, with Antigone on his arm.
    Someone should have told her it was rude
    to chase my brother in circles with such a shiny shovel.
    She only said,
I’m building the man a funeral.
    But last I measured, my brother was still a boy.
    The doorbell chimes and chimes.
    Other guests come
    in and out, snorting, mouths lathered, eyes spinning
    like Spyro Gyros. They are starving, bobbing their big heads,
    ready for a party. They keep saying it too,
Man, we’re ready
    for a party!
In their glorious twirl and dervish, none of them notices
    this is no dinner party. This is a jalopy carousel—and we are
    dizzy. We are
    here to eat the horses.
    There are violins playing. The violins are on fire—
    they are passed around until we’re all smoking. Jesus coughs,
    climbs down from the cross of railroad ties above the table.
    He’s a regular at these carrion revelries, and it’s annoying
    how he turns the bread to fish, especially when we have sandwiches.
    I’ve never had the guts
    to ask Jesus,
Why?
    Old Houdini can’t get over ’em—the hole in each of Jesus’s hands—
    he’s smitten, and drops first a butter knife, then a candelabra through
    the gaping in the right hand. He holds Jesus’s left palm up to his face,
    wriggles his tongue through the opening, then spits,
    says,
This tastes like love.
He laughs hysterically,
Admit it Chuy,
    between you and me,
    someone else is coming.
    Antigone is back, this time with the green-handled garden spade.
    Where is your brother?
she demands. She doesn’t realize
    this is not my brother’s feast—he simply set the table.
    Poor Antigone.
Bury the horses, instead,
I tell her.
    What will we eat then?
she weeps, not knowing weeping
    isn’t what it used to be, not here.
    Poor, poor, Antigone.
    I look around for Houdini to get her out of here.
    He’s escaped. In the corner, Jesus covers his face with his hands—
    each hole an oubliette—I see right through them:
    None of us belong here. I’m the only one left to say it.
    I ease the spade from her hand. I explain:
    We aren’t here to eat, we are being eaten.
    Come, pretty girl. Let us devour our lives.

No More Cake Here

    When my brother died
    I worried there wasn’t enough time
    to deliver the one hundred invitations
    I’d scribbled while on the phone with the mortuary:
    Because of the short notice no need to RSVP.
    Unfortunately the firemen couldn’t come.
    (I had hoped they’d give free rides on the truck.)
    They did agree to drive by the house once
    with the lights on— It was a party after all.

    I put Mom and Dad in charge of balloons,
    let them blow as many years of my brother’s name,
    jails, twenty-dollar bills, midnight phone calls,
    fistfights, and ER visits as they could let go of.
    The scarlet balloons zigzagged along the ceiling
    like they’d been filled with helium. Mom blew up
    so many that she fell asleep. She slept for ten years—
    she missed the whole party.

    My brothers and sisters were giddy, shredding
    his stained T-shirts and raggedy pants, throwing them up
    into the air like confetti.

    When the clowns came in a few balloons slipped out
    the front door. They seemed to know where
    they were going and shrank to a fistful of red grins
    at the end of our cul-de-sac. The clowns played toy bugles
    until the air was scented with rotten raspberries.
    They pulled scarves from Mom’s ear—she slept through it.
    I baked my brother’s favorite cake (chocolate, white frosting).
    When I counted there were ninety-nine of us in the kitchen.
    We