I grew up here in Tucson after being born in Nogales, and--
we need elevate this a little bit.
There we go.
That's a little better.
And my family has always owned Chevrolets.
And I wrote a series of poems about cars,
either my family has owned, or I still
fantasize about owning myself, or friends of mine have owned.
And this is a suite of poems called "We Drove Some Chevys,"
and I'm still waiting for Chevrolet to call me up
for an endorsement.
"We Drove Some Chevys."
"'72 Chevelle Malibu-- sometimes a Chevy's just a Chevy,
one you can take to the river, and no surprise,
the river is dry, like the song you just thought of.
It stuck in your head all the way to St. Mary's and just
past the interstate, the Santa Cruz is dry.
Sometimes, a Chevy's not just a Chevy, but instead,
a '72 Chevelle-- eight cylinders, gray as a ghost,
baby moons waxing full in harsh street light.
The summer monsoon taste green and hot,
the desert in your mouth, a hunch, a thought.
The river is running brown as a boot
'64 Nova Convertible-- red like a marching band,
like a bandera, the kind of red that looks best with green.
It flashed past you, down Oracle Road,
stock as the showroom floor, turned your head
like a schoolgirl in a miniskirt.
There are only metaphors to explain
how it was headed South, and you were
headed North, the hot wind at your back, the top down,
and driving that machine, his mustache thin as a wire,
sunglasses on, perfecto, was the happiest bato you've ever
seen, the wind in his hair, the sun entangling the windshield,
exploding the light, a minute long blind spot.
'74 Camaro Z-28--
Rene bought it brand new, blue as the ocean in his dreams.
The yellow and white racing stripe down both sides,
fast as a shoplifter.
What better car for the Levy's store detective?
That Camaro ran nearly on machismo alone,
thick as Rene's beard.
How the gringitas loved his dark, good looks--
a Mexican Travolta.
My mother's youngest brother, Rene
kept me and my primos in line without saying a word.
He had a stare that scared you enough to behave,
like the stories I'd hear about my Tata.
Once, he caught me and Johnny in the Camaro's bucket seats,
shifting the tranny, playing with the lights and estereo.
What we knew of freedom was the open road and an open Coors.
'Que estan haciendo?'
Rene's voice asked from behind us like a stone.
'We were just playing.'
Rene looked right through us.
My mother said he smiled only when we walked away."