(This work is still in progress.)
They call it Peace
but there is rarely
tranquility
waiting
for my home
to shift and di
vide
beneath and
from inside me.
I find no silence
between my
private spanglish
dialogues on
identity and the
frenzied flapping
banner sounds my
resolve makes as
tied to the gently
shifting pillar of
my soul
it snaps
in the roaring winds
of political static and
the sleet of loaded
stares
and empty promises
as swells of swaggers
and shrugs give way
to tides of eyes that
lap at my ankles
and work their way
up.
In this torrent,
my stripes do
waver.
But just because
I haven't killed some
body
doesn't mean I haven't
served my country
because my boarder
doesn't stop
at Texas
and my passion doesn't
know
what a passport is..
Foreign winds may
cause me to swell
with pride and
curious currents
carry me higher.
In persistent turbulence
I loose my teather
and frayed edges
give way to feathers
where uncoordinated flapping
becomes driven
flight.
To love well is to teach well is to occupy a space that can never be emptied, even through absence.
Your artist's eye takes my picture and maps me in soft charcoal, but does not attempt to pin me to your self-portrait.
You do not blaze trails or demand passage into wild territories. You tread lightly, leaving only slippered footprints to chart what you can, and so find subdued places I did not know existed.
You visit the shadows and dance there. You burn incense, and sing in low voices, but light no candles to chase them away.
You know that the best way to share a flame is to stand by my side.
You teach me well because you teach me from a place inside myself and so occupy a space that can never be emptied, even through absence.
----------
Amar bien es enseñar bien es ocupar un espacio que nunca se puede vaciar, tampoco por ausencia.
Tu ojo de artista toma mi retrato y me traza en carbonilla suave, pero no intenta a sujetarme a tu autorretrato.
No ardes senderos ni exiges pasaje a territorios agrestes. Te andas con pie de plomo y dejas solamente huellas. Trazas lo que puedes y así encuentras lugares que yo no sabía existían.
Visitas a las sombras y allá bailas. Quemas incienso y cantas en voces bajos, pero no enciendes velas para perseguirles.
Tú sabes qué la mejor manera para compartir una llama es ponerte a mi lado.
Me enseñas bien porque me enseñas desde un lugar adentro de mi propio y así ocupas un lugar que nunca se puede vaciar, tampoco por ausencia.
Metallic taste in my mouth,
sand between my teeth.
Electric red heat
flows from my heart
to my shoulder blades
where razor-tipped wings push
beginning to sprout.
Tearing.
I walk almost
alone
past shops.
Their neon lights read
sweat, blood, and pride
sold here.
The face confronting mine
reads
"Give me your purse
bitch."
What did you expect
when globalization has been
white-
washed
across culture?
Tingling pain aches
in the base of my stomach.
Freezer-burned marbles
ingested one by
one
sharpened on my tongue
and spat back out.
A voice on the radio is far too
composed.
A partly cloudy evening with a high of
fifteen.
We go now to news of
self
importance, qualifications and credentials.
I cal home looking
for sympathy
and find instead an
argument
on modern society.
No, Mom,
I don't
think
it's a race
thing.
Bones sweat
tremble even.
A cold hand grips,
spreads like spiders' webs
and creeps like Jack Frost.
Newspapers are reporting
rising crime
in the area.
But, we don't have enough
information
to follow up
on your
case.
There are too many
in the area
that fit that
profile.
I want to laugh so hard
I cry.
Hot salt tears
acidic enough
to remove graffiti;
big black spattered
scars
that have laid claim
to my vitality.
I buttoned my coat sideways today.
A little like me,
sealed,
but the seams don't match.
I'm standing backwards on a bus
because there isn't enough room to
turn around.
Nor do I want to.
Because even if there was room,
if there weren't so many
people
headed to the same place I am.
And assuming I wanted to see where
I was going
instead of where I'd immediately been.
I have just plain to much baggage
to allow me to turn around.
Such a simple pivot is made amazingly
complicated
by the weight
of the words
that i carry in a beach bag
by my hip.
There are the planners,
and calendars,
the interesting bit of plastic I found
on the street this morning
that I thought might be useful
even though I can't imagine what for.
And there are the color-coded
red-green-blue
seven-forty-five-to-half-past-when
schedules.
That heap of organization
would tumble and bubble
pell-mell
from the bag by my hip
(that matches my jacket
and scarf
and the cuffs on my mittens
that no one can see anyway).
All of my right-angle efforts
neatly-filed papers
planners
and crisp-edged folders
risk being defiled
on the muddy-boot rivers
that run the length of the aisle.
All of it would explode
if I were to try
to turn around.
So I stand there
sandwiched like so much tuna
between a man I am sure showers
less often than I cut my hair
and a woman
wearing almost enough perfume
to cover him up.
I ponder all of this
and I decide
I'm fine.
In fact,
I am perfectly content
to watch the green light
on the back of the bus
inform me that it is now safe
to open the door.
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