And I like to write a lot of Day of the Dead poems, Día de los
Muertos.
In fact, I think it's coming up and I'm sure
here in Tucson people are very familiar
with that Mexican holiday.
It's very important to me and to my work.
Every year I try to write at least one poem addressing
the Days of the Dead.
You probably see the influence of this, of death in my work
already.
But in Mexico-- it's true in my town I'm not sure
if it's true throughout the Republic.
But in my hometown, in Michoacán, basically you
pay rent to be buried.
You pay rent while you're dead, at least your family does.
And if you cannot pay rent, you know what happens?
You get evicted, right?
So you get thrown out to the back of the cemetery.
And when I was a young boy, I remember
we used to go to the back of the cemetery
and look at our coffins.
By then you don't realize that you don't
get thrown out for a month.
You were buried now.
It's just years, and years, and years,
people forget that you were buried there.
And so not even bones are left.
Maybe traces of bone, but not like bones anymore.
But there is one way that you can really
secure your home permanently, and that's perpetuity.
You pay this big lump sum to be there for a very long time.
Of course, not everybody can afford that.
So this poem is called "Walking by the Panteón San
Franciscano."
And this is--
I call it my tooth poem.
And there is actually a notice that I read at a cemetery.
Notice.
"Effective 50 years after the date of your death
those of you who don't pay perpetuity will be uprooted.
For more information, please walk over
to the Civil registry.
Ask for Chela.
[LAUGHTER]
In this cemetery you can buy perpetuity with pesos.
For only 50 you can keep the mossy hair
you'll never learn to comb.
The fingernails you forget to stick
in your mouth for comfort.
So even if you remember, your fingers
will slip out just after the lips slide in.
You can have the shroud that will eat through your skin
after you split the seams on your sleeping shirt.
But you will own every button on that shirt,
and every bead on your rosary, and every ring.
And though the beads and stones won't wake anymore
you can be sure they're safe, collecting
at the bottom of your coffin.
And your teeth, oh, yes, those teeth
in the back of your mouth.
The ones you never used or saw, even those will be finally
yours to keep.
But you'll also keep the more valuable things
like your cross.
Yes, you can even keep your cross.
That gold plated cross your godparent
wrapped around your catechism, or the all gold one
your mother gave up when you married in the church
she and your father married in.
Whichever one you end up with, you'll keep.
Isn't that what you, our good Catholic, would want to do?
You'll crease each finger over the knuckles, both knuckles
over the chest, and then the ribs
will cave in over the lump of dust
which used to be your heart.
And you'll fold over, and over again,
until you are layers of thin tissue pious as a Bible.
Don't be fooled if your cross seems to have grown.
You have tried to shrink down to the size of your cross.
You have tried to be devout and hinge yourself
on it like a miniature Christ.
And that will be your own little secret
blasphemy to keep in a box and tuck away
the way you used to store old love letters,
the way you will store your own tongue.
This you will learn and this knowledge to you will keep.
And no one will take that or anything else away from you.
No one will ever search inside your pocket
or disturb the way you pile up your ash or tip your skull.
For only 50 pesos you can keep all those things
you took with you.
The few belongings even God won't rattle in his collection
plate."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]