Don’t tell me how I came to be born by a river. Instead, won’t
you bring me honeysuckle, an applause of Mexican marigolds?
Tell me it’s true stardust bequeaths its anthems and won’t die so
you can bring me a rebanada de cielo that’s stopped its weeping.
Tell me Sam Cooke had it right singing a change is gonna come
but do not tell me about a child who crossed the Rio Grande to
come here, but has been lost to her mother, doesn’t know when
she will eat again. Don’t you know this girl will withstand, then
without warning, kill you while you sleep between twisted sheets?
I wish you would bring us jalapeños baked into sweet cornbread
and with it, some green tomatoes, capers, a subtle Casa Madero.
Won’t you bring us memories of a dog, a ball, or all of Saturday
to do what children want Saturday to do?
Why can’t you be kind?
Why won’t you imparadise us?