Poem of the Week
Precursor To A Mexican Vacation
It is clean, your voice,
it is a summoner,
a silly dancer,
a spinster.
You lean forward cross-armed
speaking of Cuernavaca
and Taxco
and different sizes of mangoes
and trilling birds and
you say, "it is always spring!"
and how we can see
flowers in the trees
all year long like squirrels,
not like elusive partridges or
hummingbirds.
And your voice hums again about
your aunt, your mother,
your alcoholic Aztec father,
your grandparents' Romeo and Juliet love.
And eventually
you appeared
like a wrapped pear
in Houston
at seven years,
sleepy-eyed and
nearly hollow
and you started school
like an eighth grader
because you had already
lived longer than those gringos.
So stop talking to me like dryer sheets
and chocolate shavings.
Make it an easy vacation
when I fly into those mountains
and red roofs
like a lumberjack.
Make me feel Chicano.
Make it a timeless week.
Make me love that wicked voice,
mi chaparro,
mi corazonito.
- Friday, September 24, 2004 poem of the week archives