BIO
Gustavo Barahona-López is a poet and educator from the San Francisco Bay Area. In his writing, Barahona-López draws from his experience growing up in a Mexican immigrant household. His work can be found or is forthcoming in Rattle’s Poets Respond, PALABRITAS, Cutthroat, Puerto del Sol and Unlost Journal. When Barahona-López is not teaching, you can find him re-discovering the world with his son.
License to Live
In the warm, afternoon
light,
the migrant tore open an
envelope,
and found a glistening license,
stamped with the dancing
letters,
D-M-V.
After he carefully placed
the laminated treasure
into his skinny wallet,
he grabbed his keys
and flew into a car,
barely a grade above a
jalopy.
Without the usual fear,
he let the vehicle roar,
after all, he was official.
But that was years ago
and the faded letters no
longer danced,
and the card was expired.
But at last the migrant
gave the license
to his son, who in turn put
it
into a skinny wallet they
purchased together
at a flea market.
And the son, trying to
remember
his father’s face, often
stared into
his father’s laminated
eyes.
The son pulled
at the memories trapped
inside
the holographic image
the way we all long to
recall
even a small piece of
that someone that we have
lost.
Tender Age
David
wonders what is outside now:
piercing,
blinding fire
or the
kind of cold that devours.
He begs “¡Mamá!” at every passing shadow
but the
shadows do not break their strides.
Only the
jagged, rusted bars listen.
When he
gets dizzy from the heat,
David
looks for a smooth part of the wall
and places
his cheek against it.
The other
kids tell him not to,
they say
that monsters that eat eyeballs
live in
the crevices.
David does not believe in those monsters though.
During mealtime,
he tries to pace himself.
“You only
get one bag”, he thinks.
Breaks the
bag open to lick salty-sweet crumbs.
“Come with
me!” demands what must be a soldier.
David’s disposable socks
crackle as he complies.
He is led
to a small room with a phone off the hook.
David
scrambles to put the receiver to his ear.
“¿Mamá?....¡¿Mamá?!” He yells into the phone.
“¡M’ijo!” he hears the familiar greeting.
He
answers a stream of questions.
His
mother pauses mid-word to breathe.
David
takes the moment to ask his question.
“Me va a
sacar de aquí?”
He hears
his mother cry before the call is cut off.
David has his answer.
He wants
to hug someone, anyone.
His arms
tense up in preparation,
but he
knows no one will soothe him.
Hugs, like
loud noises,
bring only
wrath.
David
wraps himself up in a thermal blanket.
He has mastered
crying without a sound
but today
the wails will not be held back.
David feels a sharp pain on his side.