Kitchen tears on feast days seep

from eye corners down cheeks.

The eyes taste spice vapors first,

even while from the living room.

 

Adobe abodes hum loud and steady

in every pueblo, as the men cook

traditional stew of two essentials —

venison and red chilies from Hatch.

 

Chunks chopped from a yearling doe

simmer all the damned day long,

as red pods dissolve, freeing seeds

into the huge pan and up to the air.

 

Women do not have to chef today

and can drift through with a beer

or pour Crown Royal, laugh, talk

in respect to the day and pueblo.

 

By blood with my aunt, head nurse

at the Indian Hospital, we are welcome

at many feast days—the laughs and meats.

We learn to eat (a little) at each house.

 

The village. Ever chanting, never shouting.

Dusty shoes shuffle on parched ground

colors only on dancers and in red stew.

Pueblo people feel no need to be garish.

 

Outside the houses, tourists buy tickets

while the tribal members gather to enjoy.

Yes to drumming. Yes to dancing. 

Yes to beaded costumes. Yes to joy.