“Mexican”
is not
a noun
or an
adjective
“Mexican”
is a life
long
low-paying
job
a check
mark on
a welfare
police
form
more than
a word
a nail in
the soul
but
it hurts
it points
it dreams
it offends
it cries
it moves
it strikes
it burns
just like
a verb
crossed
in despair
many deserts
full of hope
carrying
their empty
fists of sorrow
everywhere
mouthing
a bitter night
of shovels
and nails
“you’ re nothing
you’ re shit
your home’ s
nowhere” —
mountains
will speak
for you
rain
will flesh
your bones
green again
among ashes
after a long fire
started in
a fantasy island
some time ago
turning
Natives
into aliens
I can’ t tell you I had climbed for hours on
ledges and crawled through gaps in the earth.
My hands negotiating
through the teeth of the palisade
lipped under the vineyard of temperate skies.
And I can’ t tell you that I came
onto a ledge within the shelter of a granite roof,
ceaselessly carved by centuries of dripping water.
Feeding from pooled water and singular sunlight
a chamisa plant sat like a chopped wood.
The opposite end of root
speaking for its entirety through
silence and color.
As soon as possible, I will confront the wren’ s
doings, rinse the white streaks from the porch bricks
drawing lizards from their shade, the immediate
smell of water too much for all of us.
But first is lunch. The remains we’ ll scatter over
the driveway away from the bricks. Wrens come,
crusts from our dishes make drama. Then history.
i. the positing of space, corporeal history
medium of my body
bent to narrow rivers,
touching of the touch
commits
totem to shape:
jasmine buds,
water poppies open as the mouth.
Propolis and juniper oil
resinous viscera
embowered in trees,
as the meat
within the shell
as the shell before the caw
a bleached weed
a fig
dusted to sweet the skin
egg albumen of peacock
butterfly
held to the ivory of oxen hoof
pulling
the space
between sins I am
as I am so
sometimes <(span class="indent8"/> when the night air feels chévere!
) when i can hear the real sound
of el barrio
on la conga y timbales
coke bottles
& garbage can tops
when i can feel
& reallyreally touch
la música Latina / africana
& the fingerpoppin' soul
emergin from tears / sweet tears of laughter
spring came /
the same way winter left
& summer will come
& summer will leave; slowly
/ when no one's expecting it
when people are tired of waiting
like waiting for welfare checks /
a long wait/ a slow wait
the windows are open
but butterflies don't fly in
to display a sense of love
It is a dangerous thing
to forget the climate of your birthplace,
to choke out the voices of dead relatives
when in dreams they call you
by your secret name.
It is dangerous
to spurn the clothes you were born to wear
for the sake of fashion; dangerous
to use weapons and sharp instruments
you are not familiar with; dangerous
to disdain the plaster saints
before which your mother kneels
praying with embarrassing fervor
that you survive in the place you have chosen to live:
My name mocks me
for I was born at the cost
of my mother’ s life,
earning my father’ s hatred
with my first breath.
All my life
I have scoured a house soiled
with the thick soot of his resentment.
It has left its mark on the walls,
in his eyes, and on me.
All of it I have tried to wipe away.
In my hands I hold a broom,
in my heart —
ashes, ashes.
