When she tells me this story,

The sea is still there in Rosana’s eyes.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Carlos and Raúl, the silver-tongued

Poets of Chicano, Illinois, have never

Been to the country of their ancestry,

Though they’re silver-haired hombres.

When I invite them south, they refuse.

They’re afraid of bad hombres.

No one has told them

The ones who buy drugs and

Sell arms to los bad hombres

Are U.S. citizens.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

The blind harmonica player,

Un hombre who plays “Camino de Guanajuato”

In front of Banco Santander,

Clutches his baseball cap of small coins

Whenever he hears someone running too close.

No vale nada la vida, la vida no vale nada.

Life’s worth nothing, nothing is what life’s worth.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Un hombre tells me:

You don’t even have to learn Spanish to live here.

Amado the San Miguel realtor.

You can train your staff to do what you need,

And you don’t have to pay them much either.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Dallas, 1953.

A seer named Stanley Marcus

Purchases a mural by Rufino Tamayo

To reinforce friendship between

Texas and Mexico.

This in a time in history

When Texas still posts

Signs on restaurants:

“No dogs or Mexicans.”

The painting is of un hombre

Anchored to the earth

Reaching for the heavens,

A balance of earth and sky,

North and south, yours and mine.

Because the universe is

About interconnection.

Tamayo calls this painting,

Man Excelling Himself.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Message from Mexico to

The United States of America:

When we are safe, you are safe.

When you are safe, we are safe.

Tell this to your politicians.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

There is a Mexican saying,

Hablando se entiende la gente.

Talking to one another

We understand one another.

I would add: And listening

We understand even better.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Mándanos luz. Send us all light.

Adelina Cerritos

Adelina Cerritos,

at your service. Thin

shrug and a ni modo grin.

Could you

use some help quizás?

Might you

need a cook perhaps?

Maybe someone

to do the wash?

Brings her knuckles together

in a scrub woman’s prayer.

Adelina of the nubby

sweater and plastic shoes.

Adelina of the pewter hair.

It’s that I have a medical

appointment in Celaya

and not enough pesos

to get there.

It’s that my breasts are

charred from the chemo.

Chamuscados, she says.

Charred. Tortillas

forgotten on the comal.

Adelina del campo.

Adelina de Guanajuato. Thin

shrug and a ni modo grin.

Te A—

A boy and a girl embrace, kiss

within the triangle of my parking

space. A geometric equation

proving the whole greater

than the sum of the parts.

Beyond the eye of Church,

traffic, and mothers, here,