Chicano Poet

Saturday, March 07, 2009

The Pencil

for Esperanza Resendez

I was a wild, unkempt Mexican farm boy,
rock-throwing, foul-mouthed,

forced to join civilization
(start school, in other words).

In the first grade, I stabbed Esperanza
in the palm of her hand with my pencil.

Years later, when we’d become adults,
she showed me the tiny bit of lead

still embedded in her hand.
I felt no guilt because

it had been some other me
who had done that.

Yet, now in my old age, I realize I’m
still that rock-throwing, foul- mouthed

Mexican farm boy who can’t be trusted
with a pencil.


At 12:48 AM, Anonymous matt at shadow of iris said...

Yes, yes, poets can't be trusted. It doesn't matter where they are from.

At 12:38 AM, Blogger RC said...



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