Slow Work To The Rhythm Of A Chicana Poet

We crawled
down
a steep bank

of the
Guadalupe
River,

we carried
our
provisions with us,

beer
and
cigarettes.

Three friends
who spent
hours talking

about
who knows
what now.

Juan
still
teaches,

I
still write
chicano poetry.

And, Rebecca?
Rebecca,
I don’t know!

She’s
gone missing
in Aztlan,

the chicana godiva
dressed only
in poetry

that
rhymes
inside my heart.