Crisis

Alexander is, I suppose, to blame
For anguish in Nogales, Laredo,
McAllen, Del Rio, and El Paso—
Pueblos horneados bajo el sol
Y frente al horror indecible,
Rosita que llora por sus hijos.
More doctrine, or gall, than guns, germs, or steel,
One stroke of Inter Cetera venting
Europe’s pride onto what you don’t own,
Discovering so many things long known.

Thousands of years of solitude crashed
By a half-millennium of conquest
Could not unmake a people tethered to
Black soil, maize, potatoes, and rainforests—
La tierra que les ha mostrado,
El país fluye leche y miel,
De Aconcagua a Ixtaccíhuatl—
No less theirs in Spanish than Nahuatl,
Quechua, Itza’, or Ngäbere.
Empires egress, yet here they remain.

Cortés and Pizarro and Balboa
Gave way to filibustering yanquís,
Manifesting their destiny beyond
Borders, national or rational, yet
Scott nor Taylor, Villa nor Zapata,
United Fruit, Contras, coups, nor mosquito,
Canal zones, cartels, Marines, Chavismo,
The CIA, foil blankets, nor cages
Instead of asylum can wrest dignity.
Si ya tenemos pan y cebollas….

We cannot go back to where we came from,
Mostly because we’ve been here all along,
Standing in faith, bad faith notwithstanding,
Standing in judgment, silent as the years—
El desierto donde morimos
Es nuestro hogar más querido.
Solo está en sus corazones
Donde yerba mala nunca muere.
We are your children, prodigals returned.
Look in the eye what you’ve sown, reaped, and burned.

Image: Palo Duro Canyon, Texas. February 2018.

Santa Barbara Channel, Ten A.M.

It rose quickly, jerkily, like a ballon
Let go from the happy hand of a child.
How fitting, then, that only a child could,
Should, witness a moment surface and sink,
Grey as a lacquered cotton zeppelin
Barely distinct from the cloud-bank it crests.

Not spouting, not breaching, even splashing,
Flashing knobby spine and rubbery side
At the careless apogee of a stroke
From a barn-door fluke on a tree-trunk tail.
Gone as soon as shown, but for eyes alight
With fixéd wonder, altogether missed.

The boat skates on, inured to childish things.
Nothing is rising and falling here but
A parade of swells arriving and
Departing from our window in the mist.
But a girl’s joy bobs unseen underneath
Her breathless insistence that it was there.

Image: Santa Barbara Channel, Ten A.M., June 2019.