Francisco "Pancho" BustosThey took my cousin
and they took his wife too but they kept the babies here, al otro lado for being U.S. citizens. They searched and they searched so that an uncle or aunt could sign papers and they can let the babies go and that way, let them get back everybody back together in the land of their parents, “But they need un “es-sponsor”” the government lady kept saying. And my cousins-- without the car, without their things, without their closets of clothes, without their t.v. nor their papers from work but none of that mattered as much as the babies nothing was as important like the babies stuck al otro lado for being “yu-ez citizens” without “es-sponsors” stuck al otro lado, stuck, stuck. How can one sleep, eat, and calm down the nerves? The babies the babies the babies that was first, that was the only thing, it was what was missing. “Where might they be? What might they be eating? Who might be taking care of them? La inmigración, do they know how to take care of babies? El Gobierno, does it know how to take care of babies?” The government lady, she needed proofs, evidence “¿Pruebas de que?” my cousins asked, “what are you talking about señora?” “Proof that they’ll be in good hands” said the government lady “Someone with a house, someone with a car, someone with papers, someone with payroll.” And so the great American dream began to wear down and it felt like a strange dream, something filled with fear something that squashed the voices of the people without papers and that was how it was during the longest month of my cousins’ lives. Until at last, an aunt was able to sign, at last an aunt was able to be a “sponsor” and they finally returned to Morelia, Michoacán the land of their fathers and grandfathers too. We don’t know if the babies will ever learn Inglés or if they’ll ever seek the great American dream they deserve but my cousin and his wife are together again with their babies together again en Michoacán the place where their parents’ journey began and that of the parents of their parents before embarking on the great American dream the one they dreamed for their children and for the children of their children. Se llevaron a mi primo Por Francisco J. Bustos Se llevaron a mi primo y también a su esposa pero a los dos babies los detuvieron aquí en el otro lado por ser U.S. citizens. Buscaban y buscaban de que algún tío o tía pudiera firmar papeles para que soltaran a los babies para que dejaran regresar a los babies y así regresar todos juntos a la tierra de sus padres, algun “es-sponsor” decía la señora del gobierno, “alguien que patrocine a los babies”. Y mis primos-- sin el carro, sin las cosas sin la ropa, sin la tele ni los papeles de los trabajos, pero eso ya no importaba tanto como los babies nada importaba tanto como los babies atorados en el otro lado por ser “yu-ez citisens” sin “es-sponsors” atorados en el otro lado, atorados, atorados. ¿Como poder dormir, comer, y calmar los nervios? Los babies los babies los babies Era lo primero, era lo único, era lo que faltaba “Donde estarán? Que estarán comiendo? Quien los estará cuidando? Sabra cuidar babies la inmigración? Sabra cuidar babies el gobierno?” La señora del gobierno ocupaba pruebas “¿Pruebas de que?” preguntaban mis primos, “de que ‘sta hablando usted señora?” “De que estarán en buenas manos con el ‘es-sponsor’” contestaba la señora del gobierno “Alguien con casa, alguien con carro, alguien con papeles, alguien con ingresos.” Y entonces el gran sueño Americano se desgastaba y parecía algo extraño, algo que daba miedo y que aplastaba la voz de la gente sin papeles y así fué como fué el mes más largo de las vidas de mis primos Hasta que por fin una tía pudo firmar, por fin una tía pudo ser “es-sponsor” y por fin regresaron a Morelia, Michoacán la tierra de sus padres y también de sus abuelos. No sabemos si los babies llegarán a aprender el Inglés o buscar de nuevo el gran sueño Americano que les corresponde pero están juntos, mi primo y mi prima con sus babies, juntos otra vez en Michoacán donde empezó el camino de sus padres y los padres de sus padres antes de salir a buscar el gran sueño Americano que soñaban para sus hijos y también para los hijos de sus hijos. |
So we travel on earth seeking the terrain of Poetry, walking through wilderness and empty landscape or visiting those ancient sites like Dholavira in far-western Gujarat, or Mykenai in the Greek Peloponnese, or the Arawak campsite on eastern Carriacou in the Grenadine Windward Isles, pursuing that authenticity of experience in a form of antique material reality...
These are places, strange and vague situations where death is manifold and thoroughly extant to the careful eye. There are women’s bangles made of shell to be picked up from the saline dust or small copper beads and thin chert blades, or tiny obsidian arrow-heads that can be unhidden and disclosed beneath those bloody grey walls about the Lion Gate, or beautiful indented potsherds and ceramic fragments at the waterline where the Atlantic rolls out its long blue visceral waves...
Kevin McGrath 🐚Yoga of Poetry
“Dare to live the life you have dreamed."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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