Gateway to the Valley

for my grandmother, Maureen Gonzales

 

 

Heading south on 77 was always a test in patience.

Miles of ranch littered with nothing more than watering

holes—mesquite trees and Border Patrol always losing

their game—seeking maids and trabajadores.

 

King Ranch becomes—almost unbearable,

barren highways, suddenly divided by—oleander walls;

the only indication—civilization does exist

in this ghostly part of Texas. 

 

There!  Up ahead, palm trees lined in their perfect rows

marking the gateway—to the valley—

womb from which I was born. 

 

          At 16, I migrate—every year,

          annual baptism in love.  Cultura. 

                                                 Familia.  

 

When I would enter the gate at Cottonwood Creek—turn left,

I could taste café con leche—pan dulce—

feel the silk of furrowed hands against this face.  

 

¡Aquí estoy! I'm home!

 

She is gone.  And the road to her is marked Mont Meta

Cemetery.  Miles south on 77 seem—impassable,

in this child's eye.  Yes, this highway is still long—

and you can still see—

the devil dancing

outside—

               so           damn           hot.  

 

The oleanders still—

blush in summer. 

And the palm trees

sway—in their greeting

to all who enter

here—but the valley,

is no longer          

                       mine.

Callendo Sobre el Piso

Look into her eyes.  See yourself.

                     Your mother.

                                 Unborn daughter.

                               

                                 Then you.

Laughter.  The story unravels—

                                                      before you.

Colors of coffee.

               Almond.

               Oak.

                 ~   ~   ~

Colors that paint

women with bent backs picking

cotton—

                            Lettuce.  Grapes. 

                          

                                                         Knuckles

             knead

             masa for tortillas con

un poquitito de mantequilla callendo

             sobre el piso.

        

             ~   ~   ~

Young girls lost

en calor de pasión

                            with their clothes callendo

                            sobre

                el piso—

                         

                                                    thirteen-year-old

                            bodies—

 

             torn—regretting callendo sobre el piso

             ~   ~   ~

Brown bellies about              to explode

—water—

              from between thin legs                callendo

              sobre               el piso     

                                        school books in one hand;

                                        life of pobreza—

                                                                     in the other.

             ~   ~   ~

You smile.  Then cry—

                                        know you’ve seen

those eyes before.

                              They belong to some

                                                               hermanita

or vecina           you see      

                               callendo sobre el piso—skinning

                               her knees.

                                                

       Elbows.

            Our hearts.