And this one's "Rio Grande Valley Redux".
And I guess Juan Felipe Herrera included it in a volume of work
that he put in the Library of Congress, so--
I haven't seen it, but it was sent to him.
Uno.
I've returned after lifetimes in far off geographies, miles
from these boundless Texas skies.
Here's nowhere to hide from the sun.
My tiny Texas home smiles with good JuJu.
In every window, a quartz crystal
suspended from knotted silk cord.
Tightly braided sweetgrass discreetly placed over doors.
Floors swept clean with a special broom that knows
how to summon up the wind.
Corners of rooms transformed into shrines.
Foresighted stones who watch like guard
dogs when no one is home.
Cedarwood rain stick carved into the shape of Coatl
sounds on its own, portends storms
that swell up from the Gulf without warning.
From its driftwood stand, the ocean drum
answers questions no one knew they'd
asked with the silent medicine bundles
who only listen nestled in their colorful cloths only cough.
A rare assemblage of many years collected relics of my life
finally stashed here, the place I was first conceived.
Dos.
The Mesquite trees with their rich verdant fronds
and open welcome home branches as always stoop on bended knee
in abuela's front yard, where in my youth daily
I sat and wrote letters to my first love
en route to his promise, fighting shy of Vietnam.
My life with all its unsure detours,
its arroyo deep yearnings to forget,
and still the recurring dreams of these ancestral
tierras that always called me back.
Rancho La Yegua, La Sana, a La Sana, La Sana,
a La Sana on the GPS.
I lie here on this plane brown Earth, looking up
at the biggest skies I've ever covered myself with,
thinking of all my abuelas who've lived, who've loved,
who've died here at La Sana.
Bisabuela, Mamá Tima, the one who liked La Sana,
was called by many names.
Curandera, portray, huesera, y bruja también.
Pero yo le llamo Shamana Somnium y todavía la siento aquí.
She is still here and now so am I.
Let me get water.