WEBVTT

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This is a poem that I
wrote for my son, that

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is in the Cutthroat anthology,
which is available widely,

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that is a wonderful anthology
that captures the voices of so

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many Chicana and Chicano writers
and you should pick it up

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as soon as you can.

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Where did it go?

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There it is.

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"Un Miércoles en Febrero.

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The bare elm twisted,
light snow stuttering.

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What spring promises
seems only cruel rumor.

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The boy asked me, what
happened to my forehead.

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These ashes, I explain, remind
me that I believe in something.

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But I can't recall
why that's so anymore,

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or why Fridays leave me hollow.

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I pretend I'm a peddler of
hats in the boy's storybook

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and I have no money for lunch.

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I pretend it still means
something to deny the flesh.

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The boy tells me he likes my
ashes and will I share them.

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I press my forehead to his.

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Faith is doubt, hijo mío.

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Remember this, we are dust, we
are stars, we are what happened

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and what is next.

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