Chicano Poet

Tuesday, October 09, 2007


my mother was a pigeon in your carport
messing up your brand new car
and your radical ideas.

she was dressed in gray, of course,
but her heart remained brown
her eyes blinking once for yes twice for no.

the cold wind besieged the roof,
the ice walked back and forth
unsatisfied with every surface.

my mother huddled underneath your carport,
shivering with her head under her wing,
cruel fate shed no tears or doubts.

my mother held on tight as hell
until the winter turned to spring
and leaves shot out of a canon.


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