a priest prayed and the
kids on the block who passed the spot
on foot each day claimed they saw
an Angel with long hair looking over
it. I waited quietly for the beauty of
the block to come walking down the
street, speaking loudly about glorious
things to come, pointing to the paths
calling us to walk with enormous strides
to the very end of the road where neighborhood
church bells ring. whenever tired of the
misaligned world, I would go to that spot
calling on South Bronx spirits to make
dark voices still. I often laughed with
the browning leaves blown by the wind
in that little park that was hidden from
the rest of the city and was comforted by
its sickly trees and song birds kept just
right for my barrio streets.
Latino Heritage Month
at the border, the guards
have already forgotten this
month belongs to the broken
who are walking to the barrios
to anglicize a new generation
of names, survive its gangster
violence, make homes far from
odious gatekeepers, and dream
with their new American children
beneath the Northern stars. on these
shores, the men who run the government
long ago proclaimed this month a time to
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