Archive for the ‘Mexico Poems’ Category

Monsoon Migration

Sunday, September 14th, 2014

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The desert during monsoon is greener,

like wetback hope,

how it overcomes acacia thorns

and trails through nettle,

how migrant feet outrun floods

through mosquito canyons,

like ankles roll on rocks

and jump back up…

like cool tears that drop from blisters.

 

Monsoon green shades resident quail,

quail and timorous rabbit.

Its blooming calls through corridors

and borders—

to orange butterflies, purple birds,

to people who follow on foot,

leaving to live.

 

When desert ocotillo forests turn

and harvest moons ripen over orchards,

armies of ladders lean against trees,

waiting, chink-chinking change–

what migrants come for,

while irritable autumn wasps graze

at so many, many heavy tables.

 

 

 

 

Border Hens

Friday, November 22nd, 2013

 

 

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From a detention center,
hens escape,
courage fortified by maguey juice
smuggled in by their daughters.

With loaded patrols all along the border,
daughters who run with babies
raise courage
even in their mothers.

The jailbroke hens
toe the countryside with care,
walk the gusty sand
and frozen mud, traceless.

Some then are led by seed
to the roosters’ cornrows,
or by pennies to Northern orchards.

When hens outfox loaded borders,
it’s henmigration.
They piece together homes,
full to overflowing.
Nearly free.

 

 

Rows

Wednesday, March 27th, 2013

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Land of Lincoln corn,
rows of cool and knee high in July,
rises between leaves,
their green palms
in uniform prayer.

Feed corn fattens eunuch beef.
Seed corn grows sterile.
Come August ripe
the corn rows grow obscene,
drinking and exhaling in a crowded haze.

Soon, farmlands settle,
lightened by harvest…
the export of corn
by truck and train

to farmers

in Mexico
where Guadalupe tastes memories
of elote, of her own maize.

After Zapata
before NAFTA,
the kernels of cream
became grains of sun
for winter meals.

Her field now is a field
of whisk brooms
sweeping dust.

She buys her meal,
uniformed corn that
shoulders through the markets–
profuse, competitive,
from the Land of Lincoln.

Guadalupe daydreams
while sweeping
imagining the daydreams
of a Zapatista.

 

Support small farms and food security in Mexico!     http://sunnu.org/en/

Crossing Over–With a Rarámuri Guide

Tuesday, September 25th, 2012

In memory of Micah True, aka. Caballo Blanco,
who lived some months of each year in Mexico’s Copper Canyon

 

Give him the reins
to the ghost horse
and the guide will remove the straps
from its face and neck.
Then, they will cross the border together.

They will begin forgetting,
when walking through the city
of commuters with inventive ways
to carry worry.

They will forget the dollar
and the peso,
and thirst, for anything.

When roads disappear,
they will forget news, words,
and especially the task of asking
who they were.

The ghost horse,
his ribs and flanks will forget,
his white hide will forget
every boot heel,
wrong or right.

Together, they will breathe nightfall
with the Chihuahuan desert,
where sage soothes the sunset
as it strives behind mesquite branches,
and where wood fires in the canyon
gather Rarámuri faces
around.

They will forget
to celebrate or mourn.

All the love they’ve known is in the pollen
of purple jacarandas,
and in the maize pots, filled
for those who have become their kin.

 

With thanks for thoughts on border-crossings derived from the play, De Camino al Ahorita, by Raúl Dorantes.

 

Marcha

Friday, June 3rd, 2011

 

Updated

For the Mexican poet, Javier Sicilia, on his March for Peace and Justice
following the assassination of his son. And for the healing of Casa Mexico.

 



The poet leads the demonstration,
silently, on his feet.

Three days they walked together
in a solitude of hundreds,
who gave words from silent moments
between shudders - ni uno mas
of grief - no mas sangre.

From the high green mountains
to the valley of volcanoes
hundreds became millions walking,
walking as pilgrims in a labyrinth
through Mexico’s streets.

Where, in the great plaza,
the poet opened his voice to Casa Mexico
as a father at bedtime prayers
with his only child.

His rosary dangled on his chest.
So much weight, so much on a string of beads.
A heart placed in its crux hears and holds,
with room for our crimes, our petty altruisms
and our interims of beauty.

The poet walks.
We are several million walking,
and with our footsteps, words sway,
as our pendulum over the earth:
- paz y justica con dignidad,
Peace and Justice with Dignity.

 

[Translations: ni uno mas: not one more. no mas sangre: no more blood.
paz, justica y dignidad: peace, justice and dignity.]

Border Town

Wednesday, May 11th, 2011

For the children of Juarez

Morning.

The barrio radio
pitches hilarity at our windows,
with clumps of baritone, the news.

We try to untwist
from our sheets of sleep.
The day, already binding.

Outside, the bougainvillea
are magenta fountains,
bolder than we in daylight
and bolder at scaling walls.

Our kitchen table stands
still warm from our breakfast bowls,
and Mama’s on the long ride
to a factory on the outskirts.

Until night, when the lightbulb
shivers on its wire
over the shhhh…tunk of Mama’s ironing
on tomorrow’s uniforms.

But we want what her factory makes.
And we do not want to die trying.

Javier died not trying anything.
Without and empty, only walking
where came sudden guns.

Hear? Until he died trying,
Jaime got cash for meth
by the arroyo that disappeared Maria,
and you didn’t hear.

Sundays, the church pews slump,
old backs of prayer horses,
and we taste bitter copal
with body and blood.

The supper table stands
on loose legs, with cold places
at vacant chairs.

Don’t let it be.

Don’t let the bougainvillea drop
to piles of sepia,
fragile and faded

like we are already gone.

 

 

 

Border Patrol

Saturday, May 8th, 2010

 

I thought my North Side streets too quiet,
that seeds freed from branches by a night rain
would be swept and discarded first thing,
the scents of weekend breakfasts, bacon especially,
cleared from apartment corridors by ten a.m.

Hiding in our alley, a franchise
of illicit pain and its transient remedies.
We make order, shielding our eyes,
as if we could live behind border fences
where righteous dogs sniff-out the drugs and the desperate
but not the trail of money.

So I thought my own streets too quiet,
the buildings too anchored on their grids of sidewalk hours.
And me, with my heart skipping rules,
I got up, took a drive to the other side of town,
to the barrio where sidewalks are uneven.

To where roasting chiles release their smoke
over us, like the wings of angels.

 

The Weight of Ashes

Ashes are lighter

than Colombian drugs and
the captives in trafficking…
that weigh on Juarez

the viscosity of blood and
the volume of tears…
that weigh on Juarez

Ashes are lighter

than Chicago’s shadow commerce
the gangs on fifty-first floors working…
the exquisite sacrifice of Juarez

Only ashes are lighter

than the conscience of a boss
the sleep of his women too…
who hears the grinding of teeth in Juarez?

Ashes fly after

the children of campesinos
their eyes the night in hidden lakes…
that see the immolation of Juarez

Ashes gather

and these we cannot afford
for our smoke at leisure tonight…
not in New York, nor Dallas nor Chicago

Heavy, the ashes on our hands.

 

Campesino: subsistence  farmer

Thinking of Charles Bowden in Mexico City

Wednesday, March 17th, 2010

 

 

So you aim a foregone conclusion,
even the extinction of our species,
right between our eyes.

Maybe the last mammoth died
with uptown flowers in its belly,
blinking at the the glass towers of Polanco.
Even now, the creatures of this city
scramble through traffic
fleeing the advance of distant lightning.

The obedient faithful, do they have it better
with all that hope aimed at heaven?
Their eyes on the Lord’s table,
they let this world drip
from their dumb and delicate fingertips.

We know– there is not enough water
to wash us away again.
We toss pail after pail
across the crumpled pavement each morning,
but not one street will be clean by noon.

All night the work abrades rest
from the bodies of scrubbers
while the polished world of uptown glints
and a world of trade agreements are inked
in the tincture of peasant bruises.

I’m leaving Mexico at night,
unbelieving, charged with love and fright
for a country, for a city
sparkling below, for now,
like a fine beaded bag in the lamplight.