Chicano Poet

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Texas-Sized Car

When Sor Juana dismounts the cross
she is sore at the world,
sore at men to be specific,

she finds men bothersome,
hairy, hard to put up with,
her diatribe is a diatribe.

You ,alike, struggle in your history
as I struggle in a biography,
made and unmade by words,

they cross the road in front of us
like sheep on an Irish country road,
it doesn’t matter if you honk the horn,

you’re just going to have to wait.
The sheep dog barks at us once
and then turns its attention to his flock.

I put the car in gear
and drive into the present perfect tense,
you in the passenger seat two-hundred miles away.


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