Chihuahua 1913

(A second poem from my "American Ofrenda" collection, a series of poetic stories drawn from the lives of my immigrant familia in the U.S.  If  you'd like to support this project (no money involved) please subscribe to this blog, or to my blogs on Substack or YouTube.  Gracias.) 

In my imagination

I see them standing there,

on the platform,

while the train beside them

champs and steams,

Chihuahua 1913.

In my imagination

mi abuela reaches for him,

straightens the fine suit

they’ve tailored together,

brushes away the dust

that’s come riding in

on the hot wind

to mar his shoulders.

In my imagination

the whistle blows,

the conductor calls,

and mi abuelo

removes his fedora,

then bends to her cheek

with a kiss,

so gentlemanly,

so stiffly.

And perhaps he whispers 

“Lo siento,”

words she brushes away

like the sand

from his suit

as she has done

many times before.

But he is sorry,

for the drunken nights,

the shouted curses,

the broken plates,

the hidden frailty,

the dark blood of ancestry,

and so much left unsaid.

And then, in my imagining,

the whistle blows again,

the conductor shouts,

and with one last look of longing,

one last word of love

to her and to the niños —

Guadalupe, Heriberto,

and the dream of Rafael —

he picks up his suitcase,

battered as roughly 

as his corazón, 

and turns away.

A few short steps, 

a forever trek

to the long impatient train,

straining and steaming,

iron horse singing

to be gone,

to be away,

away,

away.

Adios to familia,

adios to all familiar terrain.

In my imagination,

as the cars begin to move

I am on board next to him

on my own immigrant viaje

across time’s cold forgetting,

across stories never told,

across rusty tracks of memories 

riding out of that station.

In my imagination

I turn as he turns

and we both look back

to her eyes,

to her tears,

to her fears,

to their casa,

to their canción,

to their ciudad.

His heart, my heart

filled with regret

like a thirst that cannot

be assuaged,

like a hunger

that eats la alma away

as his home recedes 

in the distance,

as our home fades away.

What thoughts,

what pictures,

what tears,

what curses,

what storms,

what fears

shake him,

shake me, 

in those trembling seats,

on that desperate voyage

through canyons and deserts,

mountains, forests, 

ranches, cacti, sand, 

and bloodied rivers?

What sundowns,

what shakedowns,

what stars do we share

along the unforgiving tracks

clacking and sparking

in a hard iron drumbeat

as we each say goodbye

to his own,

to his past,

to his México.

Consider the Niño

(This is the opening poem from my collection, "American Ofrenda," a poetic history of my immigrant famila.  I'll be posting addition pieces from the collection each week.)

Consider the niño

at the formica mesa

in his abuelita’s 1950’s cocina.

Español y inglés are bouncing around him

from the chisme his tias are stirring

into the salsas and frijoles,

from the gritos his tios are shouting 

at the LA Rams on the black and white tv

in that suburban sala.

Consider the chico 

who’s keeping the pan dulce 

and the naranjas company

as he plays primo poker

with Olga and Becky and Freddy,

using matchsticks for chips,

while he keeps his radar focused 

on the palabras that are zinging off 

the cupboards and ventanas,

the palabras that are rattling 

the canary cage and chicken knicknacks,

the palabras that are rolling through

like another LA quake, 

big enough to notice,

sneaky enough to mistake.

Consider the muchacho,

Mexicano, Irish, Spanish,

French, Indigenous, Americano,

already knowing the loneliness of difference

when he’s not sitting at that table,

already noticing how his brown arms

stand out in the crowded Catholic classroom,

already seeing how his dark face

finds no likeness 

in the million dollar movies

on the magic box tv.

Consider the boy

who’s basking in the warm glow

and raucous comfort of that cocina,

in its scents of grilling tortillas

and its songs of clashing idiomas

while he has no hint of what’s to come:

the Twist and Shout, Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall,

Black Magic Woman, What’s Going On; 

the burn baby burn that will light

the neighborhood streets on fire;

the selective service war 

that will napalm faraway jungles 

and fill his youth with funerals;

the highways he will travel 

looking for some home:

Samoan Islands, Puget Sound, 

Land of Enchantment,

high seas, high plains, corn fields, 

deserts and borders, redwoods and rivers,

Paris, Switzerland, Germany, Spain,

till he rediscovers finally this kitchen mesa.

Consider this persona,

this young mosaic, 

this latino, this chicano,

this beaner, this greaser,

this mixed blood 

mexican americano.

It’s there in that cocina

while he raising the stakes

on his aces and eights

and listening to the shouts and whispers

of old and young, of dead and gone,

of secretive and sensitive, 

of hellish and celestial

that he’s becoming our star witness,

our familia detective,

our clandestine ancestral spy

recording fact and fiction

in his cabeza database.

Consider this niño,

consider his cuentos,

consider his flights of fancy

and non-fiction imaginings,

consider his recuerdos,

consider his palabras,

consider his familia,

consider the recipe,

the nature and nurture, 

the journey and fire,

the suburb and border,

the chaos and order

that has made him,

that has made us.

Consider…

 

Let's Begin Our Singing

         (The second in a series of poetic songs...)

      Let’s Begin Our Singing

Let’s begin our singing 

with a morning song.

Lying beneath the covers

as the sun’s first whispers

peek through the curtains,

as the sun’s light

leads us out of dreams,

out of dreams

and home to waking

let’s begin our singing

with a morning song.

My old thin skin,

my clacking bones,

my stiffened joints

welcome his fiery comfort,

welcome his fiery comfort now,

with a morning song.

Just like the little naked squalling self

shaking his mysterious limbs

with amazement at awakenings

welcomed his fiery comfort,

welcomed his fiery comfort then

with a morning song.

Just like the hot blooded 

welter of desire

whose hands and bone 

caressed and rode

her passionate yes

to a fiery welcome,

a fiery welcome 

yes yes yes,

with a morning song.

Let’s begin our singing 

with a morning song.

Stand at the window,

stand in the garden,

stand in the street,

stand on the beach,

stand in the office,

stand on the stage,

stand on the bed,

or chair,

or table,

or ladder,

or ceiling,

arms wide and face high

at sun’s shout and striving,

with a morning song.

With children beside us,

then tiny and rambunctious,

now big and towering above us

let’s welcome old sol,

his light, 

his dawn,

his surge, 

his sprawling orange gown,

let’s welcome his fiery comfort,

his fiery comfort now,

with a morning song,

let’s welcome his fiery comfort now

with a morning song.