Once a refuge for Mexican Californios . . .
--PLAQUE OUTSIDE A RESTAURANT
IN LOS ALTOS, CALIFORNIA, 1974
These older towns die
into stretches of freeway.
The high scaffolding cuts a clean cesarean
across belly valleys and fertile dust.
What a ba*tard child, this city
lost in the soft
llorando de las madres.
Californios moan like husbands of the raped,
husbands de la tierra,
tierra la madre.
I run my fingers
across this bra** plaque.
Its cold stirms in me a memory
of silver buckles and spent bullets,
of embroidered shawls and dark rebozos.
Yo recuerdo los antepasados muertos.
Los recuerdo en la sangre,
la sangre fértil.
What refuge did you find here,
ancient Californios?
Now at this restaurant nothing remains
but this old oak and an ill-placed plaque.
Is is true that you still live here
in the shadows of these white, high-cla** houses?
Soy la hija pobrecita
pero puedo maldecir estas fantasmas blancas.
Las fantasmas tuyas deben aquí quedarse,
solas las tuyas.
In this place I see nothing but strangers.
On the shelves there are bitter antiques,
yanqui remnants
y estos no de los Californios.
A blue jay shrieks
above the pungent odor of crushed
eucalyptus and the pure scent
of rage.