And on that theme of border crossing,
these are all poems from a fourth collection
that I'm working on.
And the way to try them out.
It's so different when you're trying them out
in front of your computer at home.
They sound really great.
But so you have the pressure of all these ears
and you have to be a little more attuned to the work.
It's not going to end with as long-- it
began with a long piece and I'll end with a long piece.
It's called the "Border Crosser's Pillow Book."
And it's modeled or inspired by the Pillow
Book of Sei Shonagon.
Things that shine in the night.
Fulgencio Silver Crown when he snores,
the moon glaring like the coin of Judas.
All the smaller medals we call stars.
My buckle, the tips of my boots, the stones in my kidneys,
an earring, a tear on the cheek.
The forked paths of the zipper.
The blade of the pocketknife triggering open.
The blade of the pocketknife seducing the orange.
The blade of the pocket knife salivating.
The blade of the pocket knife.
The word Mexico, the word migra.
Things that are afraid to move when they sleep.
The owls carved on rock.
Fulgencio, me.
Things that forget their shapes.
Snakes, our bedding, our clothes,
the shadows twitching by the fire.
The skin of the rabbit, its flesh.
An Apple, the orange, the jacaranda behind the house.
The roof, the clothesline, the curtains,
the door that swells in the heat, the pipes that
shrink in the cold.
The couch, the table, the lamp.
The dominoes, the dishes, the children, the wife,
the neighbor's.
Memory.
Things that make noises at dawn.
The sun as it drips away from the horizon.
The sun as it pounds against my skin.
The sand moaning with my weight.
My weight moaning with the sand.
The stones of my kidneys.
Children waking up in the homes we left behind.
The footfalls, the footprints, the foot.
Fulgencio's prayer without saints or God.
Things that open like flowers in daylight.
Fulgencio's eyes, Fulgencio's mouth as he yawns.
The buttons on his shirt.
The orange peel, the campsite, the desert, the world.
The jacaranda behind the house.
The roof, the clothesline, the curtains.
The door that swells in the heat.
The pipes that shrink in the cold.
The couch, the table, the lamp, the dominoes, the dishes.
The children, the wife, the neighbors.
Memory.
The white sparks in my brain.
The red sparks in my heart.
The stones in my kidneys.
Things that travel at the speed of silence.
Air, sand, heat, light, grief, memory, thought, Fulgencio, me.
Things I would say to Fulgencio if I could say them.
Let's go back.
Let's keep going.
Stop.
Run.
I hate you.
I love you get.
Away from me.
Hug me.
Kiss me.
I'm sorry.
Hold me.
Things I want to polish clean.
An Apple, and another one, and another.
My buckle, the tips of my boots.
Fulgencio's forehead, our tracks in the sand,
the ring on my finger, the horizon.
its an infestation of green cars.
The word wetback, the voice, the bull horn, the officer,
Fulgencio's tears of shame.
The sores on his shoes.
The sound of static, of running motors, of running men.
The jacaranda behind the house.
The roof, the clothesline, the curtains.
The door that swells in the heat.
The pipes that shrink in the cold.
The couch, the table, the lamp.
The dominoes, the dishes.
The children, the wife, the neighbors.
Memory.
The stones in my kidneys.
I set them in gold.
I set them in gold and try to wear them like teeth.
Thank you very much.
[APPLAUSE] to.