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19 de Junio, 2006
Nahautl con Leche con Azucar con Sangre
Categorized under Palabras , Poesía | Tags: familia, historia, Mexico, tortillas
another tongue of flame dances over the bones of Mexico
and a girl gives her soul to the sky, hungering
no more but
forever memorialized by
the wind and its bitter memory
the ancient stone-colored dawn
a calender of well-heeled college kids rolls on
one more coronawithlime
a well-manicured world legacy
and a spiraling
long
dotted
line
still
she is apparently free
for the taking
the flower bending in an acid wind crying
ever ripe for the picking and her hypnotized children
dancing with the phantoms spurred
from
the dirty fires of her demise
mi abuelita, mi Nanita calls to me, she
whispers in the language of a four year-old's memory
her rhythm alive in my hands as she sings a secret song
one hundred million dying galley slaves do not care to
note their objections
or count up their change
they hammer out applause at every stoplight
then pile blind into their vehicular revelations
ambulate disease
in this eternal Aztec morning bleeding from the fissures of a discarded McDay
a small gypsy girl pushes green stalk fingers into nine million New York mornings
maize-petal fingers lifting cans of cocacola to the thinthin lips of every conspirator on the street
gritty, emaciated fingers scooping up a desert of refined excess
and dumping it on every cartoon 3-D plate
sweetly tickling the aching maw of every happy abscess in the parade
teeth show quickly and i cannot touch her hand but
even now María de la Luz slaps those tortillas around like she's hungry for a drum
and
i cannot sleep
even in the eyes of my American-born children the fate of the Indio lives on
reborn to injustice and spiritual poverty
restless and hungry
incomplete
the sky, she never ceases with her lullabies
the dreams of the people and the planet do not die
can not be shelved and stickered
will not be miswritten or unremembered
the fire of justice burns on, still biding
the blood of 500 years of sacrifice boils in the hearts of Mexico's children
and her heartbeat itself is truth
a truth that only renews
with every glimmer of the glittering, dancing, unwavering sun
a truth that only renews
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kick it, ése.