In Mexico, the steel glass glow from the cars
Sits in driveways, overtakes the minuscule
Lines of poverty, overtakes the greatness of it.
No one taught me how to climb a mountain, she said.
My hand is flat.
My palm is flat.
In Mexico, the Mexicans talk about the shaping of
Profound visions of red clay, strewn over
Shape me in gardens. Shape mountains
From the dust of no return.
I am poor. I go from door to door,
Begging someone to talk to me,
Asking them not to judge me, asking them for peace
Of mind. You are cruel and heartless,
A dictator of decisions.
My hand is flat. My palm is flat.
I love take-out food and gardens,
I feel bad about everything. My mother told
Me not to cross streets, not to talk to bad boys
With long hair, not to rhyme crime with time.
In Mexico, a boy makes tacos for Taco Night,
And dreams of playing baseball in high school.