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 salty 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, in Dallas nor in Chicago
Heavy, the ashes on our hands.
Campesino: subsistence farmer
