1.
I didn't come here
the land came to me.
I swung the hoe
and the sugarbeet raised
her green vagina through
the moist ground
I twirled
the green honeycomb
hop vines
into their flight their climb
toward the blue sky
Green beans
and the spontaneous
snakes
of lightning flashing from the strawberries
made me crawl
on my stomach
as I plucked the plants red nipples
I came here and the land
was bare for us
until I tilled the sweat
made the valleys
into quilts of labor
rows that swayed with the wind
I didn't smuggle in no legends
I carried her
a seed
and hope
I stand at the head of
my labor
I leave as always
my offspring, my fruit
is in someone else's arms
in someone else's mouth.
I don't remember the names
of all the places I've worked
They erase me from
the scrolls
They give strange names
to the miracles of my hands
no one knows me
except as a stranger
a foreigner, unwanted
unrecognized
yet they cherish the sweetness
of my sweat,
they long for the pleasure
of my broken back
sprouting wings in the fields of maize
and I die, buried by
my children, who will be
buried by my grandchildren
who will be buried
by the same hands
which I used to bury my father's
father
sunk beneath the roots
dispersed with the wilted leaves
of a tree to be cut
for the path of their greed.
2.
My grandfather had
an earthen strategy to get us up:
wake them with the wings of doves
step on the accelerator
and wait for us to awaken
get dressed, put on the workboots
step into the cold 3:30 a.m.
No one would oversleep
this way or over-party
we would always be awake
as my grandfather boiled water in a small pot
threw in the coffee grounds
that frothed and that he stayed
by pouring a dash of cold water.
The grounds would sink
and we would rise from the floor
where we slept.
Then my grandfather would speed
through the morning darkness
to greet the pregnant light
honoring himself
getting to the edge of fields in the dark
on time for the sun to see us readied
with hoes in our hands
and laughter in our stories
with my grandfather
working fields, lands, cultivating fruits
not his, not ours,
He never wanting to own anything
that could not be owned
earning his living, working with no end
*
the last demand
This is a commitment
that everyone demands:
blood, nothing less
and nothing more
than blood
on the paper and the screen, here!
Blood
the only way
to trust
what's said out loud
freedom drowned.
It's not about blood alone
It's about putting one's blood on the line
exposing the soul
to the threats and dangers
of being free
to speak up
through truth
that makes these words blood
I was born submerged in this blood
and it was through the blood
that I was exposed to
that made me carry her on
I have become callused
in order to endure
and resist
the temptation
of a free imagination
unattached
to the blood that runs
through the veins of my pen and keyboard
I plunge my hands
in the blood-words
and I raise them up
dripping with light.
*
Me comprometo
al poner
tinta
sobre
papel,
palabras
en
la pantalla
a los que quieren sangre
y nada menos
que sangre
sobre
papel.
Solo así
se puede confiar,
expresarse libre y a voz alta
No es
la sangre misma
sino el poner la sangre
y a la vez
exponer el alma
a los desafíos y peligros
de pronunciarse
por y a través de la verdad
que hace sangre
de esta tinta virtual
Yo nací sumergido
en esta sangre,
por esta vía
fui expuesto a desarrollar las venas
las vías y los canales
para poder aguantar
y resistir
la tentación de la libre imaginación
desvinculada de la sangre
que sangra
de las venas de mis plumas.
Hundo mis manos
en estas palabras-sangres
y las saco y las alzo al aire
llenas de luz
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