el palacio nacional

unlike the white house with a moat of greeen and piked fencing,
the palacio nacional of guatemala has its own plaza in it's front yard.
one steps off the front steps, crosses the street and there is the plaza
nacional where the pueblo meets and disperses. some stay in huts of black plastic and workers' proclamations. men, women, and children
sell and beg, beg to sell.
musicians sing on and off stages.
actors dress as tall clowns, as pregnant women, aborted women, silenced women.

here the pueblo comes to shout and mime
to the rulers who rule behind the grey walls and sealed blackened windows of this palacio nacional.

but how often do these rulers stand at these windows and peer through curtains and tinted glass to see, and read, and hear, and watch, the pueblo to whom they are responsible? is the president advised not to for security reasons or for fear that he might be touched by the little girl lost in the crowd, the mother with child extending matches to tourists, the sindicated-workers who have lived there longer than he has? is there fear that he might reflect, meditate, and act with conviction instead of blind principles?

las cosas simples

dos huevos, frijol, queso, plátano frito, crema:
por la mañana se llama
desayuno
por la tarde
cena.

se puede decir simplemente
buenas
a cualquier hora para saludar.
no importa días, tardes, o noches.

y cualquier mujer es seño.
no hay señoras o señoritas.
no hay razón equivocarse,

si mantenemos la simplicidad
sin borrar la esencia.


-guatemala

from the dock i look at the river with the tides going left and right. circling into shadows.
lines of waves. and one little blue boat rowed backwards and lifted high
makes its path to the other bank where huts of stick and palm leaves nestle
behind private yahts and vacation homes. where there is no school; where quiche is spoken;
where nobody in his family knows how to read.

a squinting old man, leathered by the sun rows low in the point while a boy of eight
with backpack still strapped sits in the widened front, which is the back, looks down
and around. this boy came seven months ago without knowing how to hold a pencil,
draw a straight line, with wide eyes saying i want to but i don't know your language,
which isn't mine, but it is what we speak. he still comes when there is no rain or wind,
when the blue boat is not needed to fish or go to town.

he still comes and eavesdrops. he is a silent presence over the shoulders of others.
the one standing out of line next to the child next to me.
i used to chide him for being:
lazy...and why aren't you in your seat working?
nosy...did juan invite you to hear this conversation?
a line cutter...did you ask permission to come to the front of the line?

now i see his curiousity and necessity to hear and hear again. now i wink and
gently point to his seat after explaining to saida how to subtract or alicia why it is gui
and not gi.

he reads with the f, the j, the g, the h, the ch, letters i have not presented to him, but
he knows because his brother is teaching him at the house; this, he tells me.
he has no brother. he lies, his mama tells me.

nevertheless, he just might pass to second grade.

months later: he secured math with an excellente and language with a muy bien. he will graduate and move on.

8 women

seasoning 50 pounds of meat
by candlelight. donated meat
of three kinds.

smell and look and feel and debate
if this slab is pork, this chunk beef,
this sliver goat.

place baskets upon bowls upon vats.
rat proofed.
until tomorrow: el dìa del niño.


30 de septiembre

a speck on the horizon

a wide river
a grey dusk
a small man
in thin canoe
rows
to become a big man
at home

no sè

no sé, no vuelvo a oakland, ni a california, ni a los estados. me voy rumbo al sur. en este momento mi corazoncito no se siente con tantas fuerzas, pero eso es mi sueño...quiero seguir viviendo fuera de los estados en un país latina americano, quiero estudiar, quiero trabajar con niños, jovenes, quiero encontrarme en la tierra. este fin de semana estoy en antigua para seguir mis investigaciones sobre argentina o chile, seguir la busqueda de mi voz en el silencio de la lluvia ligera, no como la lluvia del río donde vivo, donde corre por días y te encierres en tus pensamientos que ni atreven a salir de ti. pero aqui en estas montañas, con este frío, espero sentir algo que mi guiara. sé que "se hace camino al andar" pero quiero andar con mi espiritu enfrente y no solamente con mi cuerpo andando en el polvo seco del sol.

recibo correos de ex-alumnos y otros amigos preguntandome por mi regreso y me da tristessa a tener que explicar que estoy creando aun más espacio entre nosotros sin saber a donde voy, sin tener algo seguro menos una sensación que estoy haciendo algo que debí haber hecho hace años. y aunque me siento un poco vieja por estar andando asi, asi es. asi me encuentro.

that what makes us stronger...

i'm immortal, esther said with a long stare and a slight smirk as she sat still in the weight of her malaria. i don't claim such heights, but i did walk with longer strides on thursday after a rat scurried over my foot as i peed with a candle next to me. i ran out of the stall with my pants still around my ankles and watched the grey round ball hurry up the wall and across the boards to the other bathrooms, the other rooms. it is not the first rat i have seen, but this one touched me.