the blueshift journal
blueshift / ˈblo͞oˌSHift / noun
the displacement of the spectrum to shorter wavelengths in the light coming from distant celestial objects moving toward the observer.
EVERY DAY IS THE ANNIVERSARY OF SOMEONE'S DEATH
The letters in Cortés’
name got thorns
in ‘em. Wind say
he hissed at all his
good angels ,
refused to grant
them anything but cotton.
So when he died,
bunch of the angels
plucked their wings
with knives &
spit on his name
& now
​
his soul crawls
the country peering
through thickets;
can’t find master
for trying.
​
Cortés is a dead man.
​
The letters in Cortés’
name peel from his
gums a pulpy black
heart & wince. Once,
he sang a black girl’s
song and his mother
wept, hearing stones
holler at her for
weeks after, watching
the ground flinch
at the future’s plan
for its children.
Neither his
mother nor he
knew he would
charm geography
into a dress, leave
teeth marks.
​
Cortés’ angels are dead, too.
​
The letters in Cortés’
name conjure his
body through topsoil
every morning.
Crown of false skin
keeping him intact,
he rides a sea
of horses with rocks
for teeth, reaches
Texas by nightfall.
& let
the warships
feast my flesh,
if they must,
for I am
but vessel;
mouths lit
with Sojourner’s song,
the peoples
of the earth
whom I have loved,
let them protection
from themselves;
let them
their eagle feathers
or wings
let them
their slaves
or names
I know not the difference.
​
O, let them
crash naked
into my nations,
bearing
their gospel
and nonmagic.
A shadow
kind of people.
​
& could we converge
upon the Gulf,
I could summon
curanderas
just to watch
them shiver
from the chant
of bodies
I left there
________
beings of the lowest order of the celestial hierarchy/the earth’s first siblings/dark flesh bodies/the holiest of the dirt
clan/odes to nothing/but the rush of air/against brow
​
apple in the garden/nature coopted/
for evil’s bid/
pulled from its husk/to dance
in the hands/of its kin/
indigenous crop/
black hand crop/
everyman’s cousin
​
in 1519/Mexico
branded its first
black slaves/Malinke/
Soninke/Wolof/
Soso/Bantu/
cotton grinned/
a white man’s/
grin/spread its
mouth/from
the Yucatán/
to California/
before anything
was named/it
was bled
​
unwanted/by
earth
the cruel rise/only
in death
​
perched on a
cactus/sprouting
from a rock/it
welcomed
the grandparents/
of Aztecs/to their
future throne/
raised its wings/flew
600 years
til it sang/its name
into a flag/
& the children
of the conquest/
sustos and all/
used its feathers
to lick/their
wounds/while
the children
of Britain/stitched
the bird/onto
the chests/of African
slaves/and said,
“no one/
will know us/
as liars/so
will/you
have no names/
either”
​
curanderos/say
the west/is
the direction
of grief/water/
and woman/imagine
being/all three
​
​
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“‘The West/is the direction of grief / water / and woman,’ writes Ariana Brown, as she calls us to “imagine being / all three.’ In Everyday is the Anniversary of Someone’s Death—a poem told through foot notes—she creates a haunting and brave space where this imagination is possible. In Ariana’s poetry, the forgotten cost and violent history of every word—the gulf, the eagle feather, and cotton is revealed. She sharply welds the poetic form and turns colonial history on it’s head, and in that turning—the voices of Black and Indigenous ancestors and the Earth rise from the dead and sing with dignity and grace.”
— Jess X Chen, poetry judge