Martín

God fed many with one loaf and we throw away so many

As we bite off compassion and chew it until it is soggy with deprivation 

Take it out to the curb, a Tuesday morning stop

Martín stands still down the block, waiting for the green can to make it back down

Droppings of carnita and scraps from Thanksgiving 

Will be married to the corners when he opens the lid

His memory coils itself around a distant memory in Querétaro, México

When his family picked fruit for ten dollars a day

Para los Americanos

Coming to America he longed for tables adorned in food

And a job to shield his head from God

Here he stands exposed like a babe at birth

Hungry, tired, no way to communicate

Asi nacemos

This is how we are born

An American dream cut into him and encased him with his own blood

Martín places his hand on his chest, lifts his head to the sky

His throat hallowed like the tunnels we leave behind in countries we dare to invade

Ya no

Ya no

Martín closes his eyes

His mother's rebozo wraps him tightly as he lies down ready to eat

To never be hungry again

 

 

*This poem is a response to the farmworkers on strike in Baja California as they march for 15 miles fighting for more than $10 a day*