followed a yellow brick road
across two borders without the sight
of day, waded across forbidden currents
in an ancient river while vultures circled
overhead, whispered on the long walk to
a poor Crucified King, and prayed for a
thousand miracles to hurry down from
heaven to deliver them to their Emerald
City. they slept in the desert like tossed
out rags, scribbled dreams in the soil of
the North, evaded the militia men with
a hunger for blood, and questioned the
land of freedom for dark skin. they
settled in cities hiding amid crowds,
raised children to speak ingles without
Spanish drawls, boys grew up to serve in
foreign wars, girls imagined a white marriage
would keep them from a wooden cross, and
elders prayed for an end to building the nation
with the price of dark blood. they keep coming
to El Norte, where nothing is secure, with pockets
full of need, strangers with dreams, yearning for
a place to call home.
Awake
what will wake us today
to the ongoing darkening
of light across the nation,
to the ignorance moving
up and down the streets
battering strangers brown
like Christ the pale faces
say makes them diseased?
what will make us sick of
the suffering, the poisoning
hate, the neighbors quietly
becoming willing tools, the
broken bodies beneath the
weight of white power? how
long until we hear the crying
sounds of knotted throats, the
plain truth annihilated on city
streets, the blistering crosses
aflame and deaf to shouted pleas?
when will the country plot a
course to mercy, hope, justice
and peace?
Factory Girl
once again you are home
from the factory slipping out
of work clothes covered with
scraps of cloth you spent the day
cutting. you undo the fake pearl
necklace laying it on the altar next
to the Cross then take off shoes to let
swollen feet begin their bare tour of
the apartment without pain. you walk
to the bedroom window sliding it open
to have a look at the potted flowers on
the fire escape that eagerly call out your
name like prayer trying to reach the ears
of the everlasting. in the kitchen by the sink
full of last night’s dishes you recall being a
child of Spanish earth and digging soil with your
hands to help corn and beans squeeze through
land to grow. now, your rough hands with broken
nails are clamped to a factory machine you work
while sitting on a pitiable stool to make the petty
wages keeping you in a cramped fifth-floor room
with scanty daily bread. when the clock strikes
nine you go sit in your living room with an old
Bible to pray with used hope for an end to this
unforgiving spell.
The Vigil
we came to the vigil to
light candles for tragic
times, hold light up to
the dark, bear witness to
justice despite the protests
of those born another way.
we came with voices to
condemn the ghastly white
cotton sheets their bodies drape,
and the hating tongues they
flap on our streets. we came
with signs in hand, voices to
give evil a name, and in living
colors that have never given
God a reason to complain.
Cobbled Street
we searched for days on the
cobbled streets of the Bronx
still bearing witness to stories
believed on them
