Featured Poet:

The dirt beneath my mother's fingertips spawned my color.
|I came from my earth mother,
who picked vegetables and fruit so that the  cultureless
could eat from four food groups,
while she ate from one: Mother's pride.

The sweat from my father's brow softened my hardness.
I came from my steadfast father,
who cleaned windows and tires so that the uptown boys
could drive on their days off
while he was being driven hard: by life.

I came from these natural elements,  this rich, sweet mud,
which itself descended
from the artificial inequites of my mestizaje.
And with my birth,
I exited the womb with clean hands and cool body.
I suckle and engorge to fill my mother's hunger.
I learn to be a driver, not the driven.

I was born and am this sweet mud.
I was born and am this sweet history.
I was born and am this sweet culture.
I was born and am this sweet tomorrow.

His hands bleed.
At night, when he comes home
he soothes them aloe.
He wraps them in a towel.
He prays,
broken hands pressed together
like bent antennae.
He wonders,
will this hinder their transmission?
Maybe so,
beans for dinner again tonight
with orange juice made from surplus
of street corner vending.

His hands bleed.
In the shower he bathes in his own blood,
self-baptizing.
He removed the towels from his indentured hands
and places them in the sink
for use again tomorrow.