Working at my desk
smug/warm
imagining that I sit
behind bulletproof windows
oblivious to the wicked black night
filled with gangbangers
hiding in sewers, waiting to explode.
Instead my mind peels back time
where barking dogs outdoors
purring cats curled at the
foot of my bed
tired eyes glued to
soft glares of the television
echo inside my warm space.
Than helter-skelter brings me
back to reality
fatal bullets whiz all around
my casita that sits on that
little island in Barelas.
The women in my family have
always lived in war zones
each one of them has passed
on to me their
IRON STRENGTH
a calmness so unreal
that when it is over
leaves me so frightened
my Nana Luisa in her kitchen
stirring her atole
as Pancho Villa's bullets showered
her Mexican pueblo, killing two of her sons
my Nana Luciana sat outside her
southern New Mexican home
rolling her cigarettes, drinking her beer
when a bullet killed her son, during World War II
my Mama in her kitchen in Barelas ironing,
when a bullet killed her son in Viet Nam.
Exchange of rival gang gunfire
rips open the darkness
I quietly reach out with
my right hand
turn off the lights / television
roll away from the window
sit motionless in obsidian clouds
WHAT MOTHER WILL LOSE A SON TO A BULLET TONIGHT?
