"Fénicas."
Fénicas, in Spanish, just means Phoenix.
And many people of Latin descent, of course,
in this country, will Latinize or Hispanicize
the name of the town they live in.
Like globe, they'll say Global, right?
And Phoenix, Fénicas.
And this is a poem in which I try
to capture some of the problem, the cultural problem,
of the younger Mexican-American, breaking away
from his own culture and not yet completely accepted
by the Anglo culture.
"Now the girls are driving home.
Their thin breasts are resting, loose balls of feathers
against transparent ribs.
They hardly grip the wheel.
The roads out of town whip and then straighten.
Along curbs, palm trees wilt, lash at the sunset,
then yawn tired lines.
Past churches where the virgin laughs,
points to her orient nipples.
Past houses where bald husband dash furniture
against the walls.
Behind them, the TV sets are coming on in the barrios.
They pass farmers trudging home behind their teams.
The red sun pools on corn leaves.
Poinsettias bloom in their navels.
Their breasts writhe against the windshield.
By the seats of their pants, they
feel the sunset roar, the whoredom of Malinche.
And, swinging into the drive, the ravenous chickens
rush out to meet them.