This is a poem that I wrote for my son, that
is in the Cutthroat anthology, which is available widely,
that is a wonderful anthology that captures the voices of so
many Chicana and Chicano writers and you should pick it up
as soon as you can.
Where did it go?
There it is.
"Un Miércoles en Febrero.
The bare elm twisted, light snow stuttering.
What spring promises seems only cruel rumor.
The boy asked me, what happened to my forehead.
These ashes, I explain, remind me that I believe in something.
But I can't recall why that's so anymore,
or why Fridays leave me hollow.
I pretend I'm a peddler of hats in the boy's storybook
and I have no money for lunch.
I pretend it still means something to deny the flesh.
The boy tells me he likes my ashes and will I share them.
I press my forehead to his.
Faith is doubt, hijo mío.
Remember this, we are dust, we are stars, we are what happened
and what is next.